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POETICAL REMAINS 



OF THE LATE 



LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



POETICAL REMAINS 

1. 



OF THE LATE 



LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON, 

It " 



COLLECTED AND ARRANGED 



BY HER MOTHER; 



WITH A BIOGEAPHY, 



BY • w^"^***'-' 



MISS SEDGWICK. 



" Death, as if fearing to destro7, 
Paused o'er her couch awhile ; 
She gave a tear for those she loved 
Then met him with a smile." 



A NEW EDITION, REVISED. 

"=■ ±<jO i 

f PHILADELPHIA : J - 

LEA AND BLANCHARD. 
1843. 









Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1840, by 

LEA &, BLANC HARD, 

In the clerk's office of the district court of the eastern district 
of Pennsylvania. 



STEREOTYPED BY J. FAGAN. 



PRINTED BY T. K. AND P. G. COLLINS, PHILADELPHIA. 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

Dedication « 17 

Biography 25 

Poetical Remains , 79 

Address to my Muse 83 

Amir Khan . . ., 99 

Chicomico 100 

Miscellaneous Pieces 121 

Charity 123 

To Science 123 

Pleasure 124 

The Good Shepherd 124 

Lines, written under the promise of Reward 125 

To the Memory of H. K. White 126 

Stilling the Waves 126 

A Song, in imitation of the Scotch 127 

Exit from Egyptian Bondage 128 

Last Flower of the Garden .^ . 129 

Ode to Fancy 130 

The Bl ush .131 

On an -^olian Harp 132 

The Coquette 133 

Death of an Infant 134 

Reflections on Crossing Lake Champlain 135 

The Star of Liberty 136 

1 * (13) 



XIV CONTENTS. 

The Mermaid 137 

On Solitude 138 

On the Birth of a Sister 139 

A Dream 139 

To my Sister 141 

Cupid's Bower 142 

The Family Time-Piece 143 

On the Execution of Mary, Queen of Scots 145 

The Destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah 146 

Ruth's Answer to Naomi 148 

David and Jonathan 148 

The Sick Bed ; 149 

Death 1 150 

To my Mother .'». 150 

Sabrina, a Volcanic Island, which appeared and disappeared 

among the Azores,,in 1811 151 

The Prophecy .'i 152 

Prophecy II. 154 

Prophecy III. 155 

Byron 156 

Feats of Death 156 

Auction Extraordinary 158 

The Bachelor 159 

The Guardian Angel 160 

On the Crew of a Vessel who were found Dead at Sea . . . 161 

Woman's Love 163 

To a Lady, whose singing resembled that of an absent Sister 164 

To my Friend and Patron, M K , Esq 165 

On seeing a Picture of the Virgin Mary, painted several 

centuries since 166 

American Poetry 168 

Headache 169 

To a Star 169 

Song of Victory for the Death of Goliath 170 

The Indian Chief and Conconay 171 

The Mother's Lament for her Infant 174 



CONTENTS. XV 

On the Motto of a Seal 175 

Morning 176 

Shakspeare 177 

To a Friend 177 

The Fear of Madness 178 

Maritorne, or the Pirate of Mexico 179 

America 187 

Lines addressed to a Cousin 189 

Modesty 190 

A View of Death 190 

Rob Roy's reply to Francis Osbaldistone 191 

To a Lady recovering from Sickness 192 

The Vision 192 

On seeing, at a Concert, the public performance of a Fe- 
male Dwarf 195 

On seeing a young Lady at her Devotions 196 

Alonzo and Imanel 197 

To Margaret's Eye 199 

To a young Lady, whose Mother was Insane from her Birth 199 

Song, tune Mrs. Robinson's Farewell 201 

Song 202 

Twilight 202 

On the Death of Queen Caroline 203 

On the Death of the beautiful xMrs. 204 

The White Maid of the Rock 205 

The Wee Flower of the Heather 206 

To my Dear Mother in Sickness 207 

An Acrostic (Moon, Sun) 208 

Habakkuk 3d, 6lh 208 

On reading a fragment called the Flower of the Forest . . . 209 

Zante 209 

The Yellow Fever 212 

Kindar Burial Service — ^Versified 213 

The Grave 214 

Ruins of Palmyra 214 

The Wide World is Drear 215 



XVI CONTENTS. 

Farewell to Miss E. B 216 

The Army of Israel at the foot of Mount Sinai 217 

Garden of Gethsemane 218 

The Tempest God 219 

To a Departing Friend 219 

The Parting of De Courcy and Wilhelmine 220 

Love, Joy, and Pleasure, an allegory 225 

My Last Farewell to my Harp 228 

Specimens of Prose Composition 231 

Columbus 233 

Alphonso in Search of Learning 235 

Sensibility .240 

The Holy Writings 241 

Charity 243 

Remarks on the Immorality of .the Stage 244 

Contemplation of the Heavens 245 

The Origin of Chivalry 247 



DEDICATION. 



TO 

WASHINGTON IRVING, ESQUIRE. 

Dear Sir : — 

Since the publication of my daughter Margaret's 
Poems, I have been solicited to revive the writings 
of my lamented Lucretia. The public has mani- 
fested so much interest, and expressed such unquali- 
fied admiration of their merits, and so much forbear- 
ance in criticising the errors of these juvenile pro- 
ductions, that I feel myself, in a measure, bound to 
comply with their wishes. As a testimony of my 
grateful respect, will you permit me, sir, to dedicate 
this little volume to you, with the sincere and united 
thanks of my family, for the truly touching and ele- 
gant manner in which you have executed your vol- 
untary task. 

I am called upon for a life of my Lucretia. Broken 
as I am in health and spirits, I am not equal to the 
effort ; but the kindness of Miss Sedgwick has obvi- 
ated that difficulty, and I am happy in being able 
to substitute the following elegantly written memoir 
from the pen of that highly gifted lady, which is in- 
corporated in Sparks's American Biography, for the 
broken and unconnected narrative which a grief- 
worn, and almost broken-hearted mother would have 
produced. 

(17) 



XVlll DEDICATION. 

I have merely strength to slightly remark upon 
the circumstances under which some few of her 
poems were written ; and should the imperfect man- 
ner in which this little volume is " got up," form a 
painful contrast to your elegant work, I trust an 
indulgent and discriminating community will make 
every allowance for its inefficiency. The forbear- 
ance, and even approbation in some instances, mani- 
fested by Mr. Southey, in his Review of her former 
publication, to which Professor Morse prefixed a 
brief sketch of her life, leads me to hope, that the 
same indulgence will be granted to this little tribute 
of maternal love ; — a feeble monument of a mourning 
mother to the talents and virtues of a darling child. 

I have felt much diffidence in presenting these 
manuscripts to the public, in their present imperfect 
and unfinished state; but the circumstances under 
which many of them were written, condemned and 
partly destroyed by herself, as if unworthy to hold 
a place among her papers, her extreme youth and 
loveliness, and the melancholy fact of her dying be- 
fore she had time to complete others, will, I trust, 
make them not less interesting to the reader of taste 
and feeling. 

The allegory of " Alphonso in search of Learn- 
ing," was written at the age of eleven. It was sug- 
gested to her infant mind by seeing a cupola erected 
upon the Plattsburgh Academy, upon which was 
painted the Temple of Science. 

The poem of " Chicomico" was written after a 
severe illness, which confined me manv months to 



DEDICATION. XIX 

my bed, during which time Lucretia made a resolu- 
tion that if I ever should recover, she would give up 
her " scribbling,'^ as she called it, and devote herself 
to me : at my earnest entreaty, however, she resumed 
her pen, and the first thing she produced was Ghi- 
comico, prefaced by the following lines : 

"I had thought to have left thee, my sweet harp, for ever; 
To have touched thy dear strings again — never — oh, never ! 
To have sprinkled oblivion's dark waters upon thee. 
To have hung thee where wild winds would hover around thee; 
But the voice of affection hath call'd forth one strain, 
Which when sung, I will leave thee to silence again." 

This beautiful tribute of affection has ever been 
one of the most cherished relics of my child, and I 
deeply regret that the irregular and unconnected 
state of the manuscript obliges me to withhold the 
whole of the first part. 

The ballad of " De Courcy and Wilhelmine" was 
written for a weekly paper, which she issued for the 
amusement of the family. It was dated from " The 
Little Corner of the World," edited by the Story- 
Teller, and dedicated to Mamma. After a time it 
was discontinued, and to my extreme regret de- 
stroyed. The fragment inserted in the collection, is 
one of the very few remnants found among her 
manuscripts; the first sixteen verses are purely 
original ; the sequel was supplied by a friend, it 
being deemed too fine to be rejected for want of 
mere filling out. Lucretia's diffidence, and the ap 
prehension that the circumstances might transpire 
or the papers be read by some friend out of the 



XX DEDICATION". 

family, was, I believe, the sole reason why she dis- 
continued and destroyed them. This mutilated pa- 
per, and a part of Rodin Hall, are all that remain 
of the " Story-Teller." 

Her sweetly playful disposition is strongly mani- 
fested in her " Petition of the Old Comb." She had 
retired to her room with her books and pen, where 
she had spent several days. Feeling a desire to 
see how she was getting on, I went to her room. 
As I passed through the hall, I saw a sealed letter 
directed to me, lying at the foot of the stairs; I 
opened it, and found it contained the " Petition of a 
Poor Old Comb." 

Dear mistress, I am old and 'poor, 

My teeth decayed and gone ; 
Oh ! give me but one moment's rest, 

For mark, I 'm tott'ring down. 

Thy raven locks for many a day, 

I 've bound around thy brow ; 
And now that I am old and lame, 

1 prithee let me go. 

Have I not, many a weary hour, 

Peep'd o'er thy book or pen ; 
And seen what this poor mangled form 

Will ne'er behold again 1 

A faithful servant I have been, 

But ah ! my day is past ; 
And all my hope, and all my wish, 

Is liberty at last. 

Mark but the glittering well-fill'd shelf, 

Where my companions lie ; 
Are they not fairer than myself, 

And younger far than 1 1 



DEDICATION. XXI 

Oh ! then in pity hie thee there, 

Where thousands wait thy call, 
And twine one in thy raven hair, 

To shroud my shameful fall. 

My days are hast'ning to their close, 

Crack ! crack ! goes every tooth ; 
A thousand pains, a thousand woes, 

Remind me of my youth. 

Adieu then — in distress I die — 

My last hold fails me now ; 
Adieu, and may thy elf locks fly 

For ever 'round thy brow. 

On reading it, I went up stairs and found her en- 
veloped in books and manuscripts. Several large 
folios lay open on the table, to which she seemed to 
have been referring ; while books, papers and scraps 
of poetry were strewn in confusion over the carpet. 
Her luxuriant hair had escaped from its confine- 
ment, and hung in rich glossy curls upon her neck 
and shoulders, while the superannuated comb lay at 
her feet. As I hastily entered the room, she mani- 
fested some mortification, that I should have sur- 
prised her in the midst of so much confusion, and 
throwing her handkerchief over her papers, laugh- 
ingly asked, what I thought of the Petition? I ad- 
vised her to send directly to the *' well-filled glitter- 
ing shelf," as I had no desire to see the curse de- 
nounced verified, or her 

"Elf locks fly 
For ever 'round her brow." 



XXll DEDICATION. 

" Maritorne, or the Pirate of Mexico," was writ- 
ten in Albany, during her stay at the Institution of 
Miss Gilbert, at a time when she was ill, in the 
brief space of three weeks, while getting daily les- 
sons like any other school girl. During that period, 
she also produced several fugitive pieces. She had 
been absent from home but six weeks when I was 
summoned to attend her; she had then been confined 
to her bed three weeks. On the morning after my 
arrival, she desired me to collect the scattered sheets 
of Maritorne, and expressed much sorrow when 
she found that some were missing. She told me 
with tears, that she feared she could never sup- 
ply the loss, and said, " Do, mamma, take care of 
whai remains ; it is thus far the best thing I ever 
wrote." 

After her death, in her portfolio, which her nurse 
told me she used every day sitting in bed, supported 
by pillows, I found the " Last Farewell to my 
Harp," and the " Fear of Madness," both written 
in a feeble, irregular hand, and evidently under a 
state of strong mental excitement. By their side lay 
the unfinished head of a Madonna, copied from a 
painting executed several centuries ago, and with 
the drawing lay also the unfinished poem suggested 
by the painting — 

" Roll back, thou tide of time, and tell." 

In the " Last Farewell to my Harp," the presenti- 
ment of her death, if I may so term it, is strongly 



DEDICATION. XXm 

portrayed, mingled with the feeling of presumption 
which she often manifested in having " dared to 
gaze" 

" Upon the lamp which never can expire, 
The undying, wild, poetic fire." 

There is something extremely touching in the last 
stanzas. 

" And here, my harp, we part for ever, 
1 '11 waken thee again — oh ! never ; 
Silence shall chain thee cold and drear. 
And thou shalt calmly slumber here !" 

The Fear of Madness." — The reader will find 
his sympathies all awakened upon perusing this 
unfinished fragment from the pen of the lovely suf- 
ferer. It leaves too painful a sensation upon the 
mind to admit a comment. 

I have suppressed a very few of the poems 
heretofore published, and have added many new 
ones. 

I have the honour to be, 

Sir, your very sincere 

and obliged friend, 

M. M. D. 

Saratoga Springs, 
August, 1841. 



This new Edition has been carefully revised, 
and the errors corrected. Upon the first 
publication of Amir Khan some few stanzas 
were omitted, in consequence of the difficulty 
of decyphering, or some other good cause. 
Those stanzas are here restored, according to 
the original design of the author. 

M. M. D. 

Saratoga Springs, March, 1843. 



BIOGRAPHY 



OP 



LUGRETIA MARIA DAYIDSON. 



LucRETiA Maria Davidson- was born at Platts- 
burgh, in the state of New York, on the 27th of Sep- 
tember, 1808. Her father. Dr. Oliver Davidson, is a 
lover of science, and a man of intellectual tastes. 
Her mother, Margaret Davidson, (born Miller,) is of 
a most respectable family, and received the best edu- 
cation her times afforded, at the school of the cele- 
brated Scottish lady, Isabella Graham, an institution 
in the city of New York, that had no rival in its day, 
and which derived advantages from the distinguished 
individual that presided over it, that can scarcely be 
counterbalanced by the multiplied masters and multi- 
form studies of the present day. The family of Miss 
Davidson lived in seclusion. Their pleasures and 
excitements were intellectual. Her mother has suf- 
fered year after year from ill health and debility ; and 
being a person of imaginative character, and most 
ardent and susceptible feelings, employed on domestic 
incidents, and concentrated in maternal tenderness, 
she natural! V loved and cherished her daughter's 
marvellous gifts, and added to the intensity of the fire 
with which her genius and her affections, mingling in 
one holy flame, burned till they consumed their mor- 

2 * ' (25) 



26 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

tal investments. We should not have ventured to say 
thus much of the mother, who still survives to weep 
and to rejoice over her dead child more than many 
parents over their living ones, were it not to prove, 
that Lucretia Davidson's character was not miracu- 
lous, but that this flower of paradise was nurtured 
and trained by natural means and influences. 

The physical delicacy of this fragile creature was 
apparent in infancy. When eighteen months old, she 
had a typhus fever, which threatened her life ; but 
nature put forth its mysterious energy, and she 
became stronger and healthier than before her illness. 
No records were made of her early childhood, save 
that she was by turns very gay and very thoughtful, 
exhibiting thus early these common manifestations of 
extreme sensibility. Her first literary acquisition 
indicated her after course. She learned her letters at 
once. At the age of four she was sent to the Platts- 
burgh Academy, W'here she learned to read and to 
form letters in sand, after the Lancasterian method. 
As soon as she could read, her books drew her away 
from the plays of childhood, and she was constantly 
found absorbed in the little volumes that her father 
lavished upon her. Her mother, on some occasion, in 
haste to write a letter, looked in vain for a sheet of 
paper. A whole quire had strangely disappeared 
from the table on which the waiting implements 
usually lay ; she expressed a natural vexation. Her 
little girl came forward, confused, and said, "Mamma, 
I have used it." Her mother, knowing she had never 
been taught to write, was amazed, and asked what 
possible use she could have for it. Lucretia burst into 
tears, and replied that " she did not like to tell." Her 
mother respected the childish mystery, and made no 
farther inquiries. The paper continued to vanish, 
and the child was often observed with pen and ink, 



BIOGRAPHY. 27 

Still sedulously shunning observation. At last her 
mother, on seeing her make a blank book, asked what 
she was going to do with it? Lucretia blushed, and 
left the room without replying. This sharpened her 
mother's curiosity ; she watched the child narrowly, 
and saw that she made quantities of these little books. 
and that she was disturbed by observation ; and if one 
of the family requested to see them, she would burst 
into tears, and run 3.way to hide her secret treasure. 
The mystery remained unexplained till she was six 
years old, when her mother, in exploring a closet 
rarely opened, found behind piles of linen, a parcel of 
papers, which proved to be Lucretia's manuscript 
books. At first, the hieroglyphics seemed to baffle 
investigation. On one side of the leaf was an artfully- 
sketched picture ; on the other, Roman letters, some 
placed upright, others horizontally, obliquely, or 
backwards, not formed into words, nor spaced in any 
mode. Both parents pored over them till they ascer- 
tained the letters were poetical explanations, in metre 
and rhyme, of the picture in the reverse. The little 
books were carefull/put away as liter.ary curiosities. 
Not long after this, Lucretia came running to her mo- 
ther, painfully agitated, her face covered with her 
hands, and tears trickling down between her slender 
fingers — "Oh, mamma ! mamma!" she cried, sobbing, 
" how could you treat me so ? You have not used me 
well ! My little books ! you have shown them to papa, 
— Anne — Eliza, I know you have. Oh, what shall I 
do ?" Her mother pleaded guilty, and tried to soothe 
the child by promising not to do so again : Lucretia's 
face brightened, a sunny smile played through her 
tears as she replied, "Oh, mamma, I am not afraid 
you will do so again, for I have burned them all;'' 
and so she had ! This reserve proceeded from no- 
thing cold or exclusive in her character ; never was 



S8 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

there a more loving or sympathetic creature. It 
would be difficult to say which was most rare, her 

modesty, or the genius it sanctified. She did not 

learn to write till she was between six and seven; 
her passion for knowledge was then rapidly develop- 
ing ; she read with the closest attention, and was con- 
tinually running to her parents with questions and 
remarks that startled them. At a very early age, her 
mother implanted the seeds of religion, the first that 
should be sown in the virgin soil of the heart. That 
the dews of Heaven fell upon them, is evident from 
the breathing of piety throughout her poetry, and still 
more from its precious fruit in her life. Her mother 
remarks, that, "from her earliest years, she evinced a 
fear of doing anything displeasing in the sight of God ; 
and if, in her gayest sallies, she caught a look of dis- 
approbation from me, she would ask, with the most 
artless simplicity, * Oh, mother, was that wicked?'" 
There are very early, in most children's lives, cer- 
tain conventional limits to their humanity, only cer- 
tain forms of animal life that are respected and che- 
rished. A robin, a butterfly, or 2P kitten is a legitimate 
object of their love and caresses ; but woe to the bee- 
tle, the caterpillar, or the rat that is thrown upon their 
tender mercies ! Lucretia Davidson made no such 
artificial discriminations ; she seemed to have an in- 
stinctive kindness for every living thing. When she 
was about nine, one of her schoolfellows gave her a 
young rat that had broken its leg in attempting to 
escape from a trap; she tore off a part of her pocket 
handkerchief, bound up the maimed leg, carried the 
animal home, and nursed it tenderly. The rat, in 
spite of the care of its little leech, died, and was 
buried in the garden, and honoured with the meed of 
a " melodious tear." This lament has not been pre- 
served ; but one she wrote soon after, on the death 



BIOGRAPHY. 29 

of a maimed pet Robin, is given here as the earliest 
record of her muse that has been preserved : — 

ON THE DEATH OF MY ROBIN. 

" Underneath this turf doth lie 
A little bird which ne'er could fly, 
Twelve large angle worms did fill 
This little bird, whom they did kill. 
Puss! if you should chance to smell 
My little bird from his dark cell, 
Oh! do be merciful my cat, 
And not serve him, as you did my rat!" 

Her application to her studies at school was intense. 
Her mother judiciously, but in vain, attempted a 
diversion in favour of that legitimate sedative to fe- 
male genius, the needle; Lucretia performed her pre- 
scribed tasks with fidelity, and with amazing celerity, 
and was-again buried in her book. 

When she was about twelve, she accompanied her 
father to the celebration of Washington's birth-night- 
The music and decorations excited her imagination; 
but it was not with her, as with most children, the 
mere pleasure of stimulated sensations; she had studied 
the character and history of the father of her country, 
and the "fete" stirred up her enthusiasm, and inspired 
that feeling of actual existence, and presence peculiar 
to minds of her temperament. 

To the imaginative there is an extension of life, far 
back into the dim past, and forward into the untried 
future, denied to those of common mould. 

The dav after the fete, her elder sister found her 
absorbed in writing. She had sketched an urn, and 
written two stanzas beneath it: she was persuaded to 
show them to her mother; she brought them, blushing 
and trembling; her mother was ill, in bed; but she 
expressed her delight with such unequivocal anima- 



30 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

tion, that the child's face changed from doubt to 
rapture, and she seized the paper, ran away, and inm- 
nnediatel}^ added the concluding stanzas ; when they 
were finished, her mother pressed her to her bosom, 
wept with delight, and promised her all the aid and 
encouragement she could give her; the sensitive child 
burst into tears. " And do you wish me to write, 
mamma ? and will papa approve? — and will it be right 
that I should do soT" This delicate conscientiousness 
gives an imperishable charm to the stanzas, and to 
fix it in the memory of our readers, we here quote 
them from her published poems. 

"And does a Hero's dust lie herel 
Columbia! gaze and drop a tear! 
His country's and the orphan's friend, 
See thousands o'er his ashes bend ! 

"Among the heroes of the age, * , 

He was the warrior and the sage ! 
He left a train of glory bright 
Which never will be hid in night. 

"The toils of war and danger past, 
He reaps a rich reward at last ; 
His pure soul mounts on cherub's wings. 
And now with saints and angels sings. 

"The brightest on the list of fame 
In golden letters shines his name ; 
Her trump shall sound it through the world, 
And the striped banner ne'er be furled ! 

"And every sex, and every age, 
From lisping boy, to- learned sage. 
The widow, and her orphan son. 
Revere the name of Washington." 

Lucretia did not escape the common trial of pre- 
cocious genius. A literary friend to whom Mrs. 
Davidson showed t>he stanzas, suspected the child 
had, perhaps unconsciously, repeated something she 



BIOGRAPHY. 31 

had gathered from the mass of her reading, and she 
betrayed her suspicions to Lucretia — she felt her rec- 
titude impeached, and this, and not the wounded pride 
of the young author, made her weep till she was ac- 
tually ill ; as soon as she recovered her tranquillity, 
she offered a poetic and playful remonstrance, which 
set the matter at rest, and put an end to all future 
question of the authenticity of her productions. Be- 
fore she was twelve years old, she had read the Eng- 
Hsh poets. " The EngHsh poets," says Southey, in 
his review of Miss Davidson's poems, though a vague 
term, was a wholesome course, for such a mind. She 
had read, beside, much history, sacred and profane, 
novels, and other works of imagination. — Dramatic 
works were particularly attractive to her ; her devo- 
tion to Shakspeare is expressed in an address to him 
written about this time, from which we extract the 
following stanza : — 

" Heaven, in compassion to man's erring heart, 
Gave thee of viriue, then of vice a part, 
Lest we in wonder here, should bow before thee, 
Break God's commandment, worship and adore thee." 

Ordinary romances, and even those highly wrought 
fictions, that without any type in nature have such a 
mischievous charm for most imaginative young per- 
sons, she instinctively rejected ; her healthy appetite, 
keen as it was, was under the government of a pure 
and sound nature. Her mother, always aware of the 
worth of the gem committed to her keeping, amidst 
her sufferings from ill health kept a watchful eye on 
her child, directed her pursuits, and sympathized in 
all her little school labours and trials ; she perceived 
that Lucretia was growing pale and sickly over her 
studies, and she judiciously withdrew her, for a time, 
from school. She was soon rewarded for this wise 
measure by hearing her child's bounding step as she 



32 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

approached her sick room, and seeing the cheek bent 
over her pillow blooming with returninoj health. 
How miserably mistaken are those, who fancy that 
all the child's lessons must be learned from the school- 
book and school-room ! This apt pupil of nature had 
only changed her books and her master ; now, she sat 
at the feet of the great teacher, nature, and read, and 
listened, and thought, as she wandered along the 
Saranac, or contemplated the varying aspects of Cum- 
berland Bay. She would sit for hours and watch the 
progress of a thunder-storm, from the first gathering 
of the clouds, to the farewell smile of the rainbow. 
We give a specimen of the impression of these studies 
in the following extract from her unpublished poems: 

TWILIGHT. 

How sweet the hour when daylight blends 

With the pensive shadows on evening's breast ! 

And dear to this heart is the pleasure it lends, 
For 't is like the departure of saints to their rest 

Oh ! 't is sweet, Saranac, on thy lov'd banks to stray, 
To watch the last day-beam dance light o'er thy wave, 

To mark the white skiff as it skims o'er the Bay, 
Or heedlessly bounds o'er the warrior's deep grave.* 

Oh ! 't is sweet to a heart, unentangled and light, 

When with hope's brilliant prospects the fancy is blest, 

To pause 'mid its day-dreams so witchingly bright. 
And mark the last sunbeams while sinking to rest. 

The following, from her unpublished poems, is the 
result of the same pensive meditations. 

* Cumberland Bay was the scene of a battle during the last 
war. 



BIOGRAPHY. 33 



THE EVENING SPIRIT. 

When the pale moon is shining bright, 

And nought disturbs the gloom of night, 

'Tis then upon yon level green, 

From which St. Clair's dark heights are seen, 

The Evening Spirit glides along, 

And chaunts her melancholy song; 

Or leans upon a snowy cloud, 

And its white skirts her figure shroud. 

By zephyrs light she's wafted far, 

And contemplates the northern star, 

Or gazes from her silvery throne. 

On that pale queen, the silent moon. 

Who is the Evening Spirit fair. 

That hovers o'er thy walls, St. Clair? 

Who is it, that with footstep light, 

Breathes the calm silence of the night 1 

Ask the light zephyr who conveys 

Her fairy figure o'er the waves ; 

Ask yon bright fleecy cloud of night. 

Ask yon pale planet's silver light, 

Why does the Evening Spirit fair 

Sail o'er the walls of dark St. Clair? 

In her thirteenth year the clouds seemed heavily- 
gathering over her morning ; her mother, who had 
hitherto been her guide and companion, could no 
longer extend to her child the sympathy and en- 
couragement which she needed. Lucretia was 
oppressed with the apprehension of losing this fond 
parent, who for weeks and months, seemed upon the 
verge of the grave. There are among her unpub- 
lished poems, some touching lines to her mother 
written I believe about this time, concluding thus : — 

" Hang not thy harp upon the Vv^illow, 
That weeps o'er every passing wave; 
This life is but a restless pillow, 

There's calm and peace beyond the grave." 
3 



34 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

As Mrs. Davidson's health gradually amended, 
with it returned her desire to give her daughter every 
means in her power to aid the development of her 
extraordinary genius. Her extreme sensibility and 
delicate health, subjected her, at times, to depres- 
sions of spirit ; but she had nothing of the morbid 
dejection, the exclusiveness, and hostility to the world, 
that are the results of self-exaggeration, selfishness, 
and self-idolatry, and not the natural offspring of 
genius and true feeling, which, in their healthy state, 
are pure and living fountains flowing out in abundant 
streams of love and kindness.* 

Indulgent as Mrs. Davidson was, she was too wise 
to permit Lucretia to forego entirely the customary 
employments of her sex. When engaged with these 
it seems she sometimes played truant with the muse ; 
once she had promised to do a sewing task, and had 
eagerly run oft' for her work-basket ; she loitered, and 
when she returned, she found her mother had done 
the work, and that there was a shade of just displeasure 
on her countenance. " Oh mamma !" she said, " I did 
forget, I am grieved, I did not mean to neglect you." 
" Where have you been, Lucretia V " I have been 
writing," she replied, confused ; " as I passed the win- 
dow, I saw a solitary sweet pea, I thought they were 
all gone ; this was alone ; I ran to smell it, but before I 
could reach it a gust bf w^ind broke the stem ; I turned 
away disappointed, and was coming back to you ; but 
as I passed the table there stood the inkstand, and I 
forgot you." If our readers will turn to her printed 
poems, and read the " Last Flower of the Garden," 



* Genius, like many other sovereigns, has been allowed the 
exercise of unreasonable prerocjatives ; but none perhaps much 
more mischievous, than the right to confer on self-indulgence 
the gracious name of sensibility. 



BIOGRAPHY. 35 

they will not wonder that her mother kissed her, and 
bade her never resist a similar impulse. 

When in her " happy moments," as she termed 
them, the impulse to write was irresistible — she 
always wrote rapidly, and sometimes expressed a 
wish that she had two pairs of hands, to record as 
fast as she composed. She wrote her short pieces 
standing, often three or four in a day, in the midst of 
the family, blind and deaf to all around her, wrapt in 
her own visions. She herself describes these visita- 
tions of her muse, in an address to her, beginning — 

" Enchanted when thy voice I hear, 
I drop each earthly care; 
I feel as wafted from the world 
To Fancy's realms of air." 

When composing her long, and complicated poems, 
like " Amir Khan," she required entire seclusion ; if 
her pieces were seen in the process of production, the 
spell was dissolved, she could not finish them, and 
they were cast aside as rubbish. When writing a 
poem of considerable length, she retired to her own 
apartment, closed the blinds, and in warm weather, 
placed her ^olian harp in the window. Her mother 
has described her on one of these occasions, when an 
artist would have painted her as a young genius com- 
muning with her muse. We quote her mother's 
graphic description: "I entered the room — she was 
sitting with scarcely light enough to discern the charac- 
ters she was tracing ; her harp was in the window, 
touched by a breeze just sufficient to rouse the spirit 
of harmony ; her comb had fallen on the floor, and 
her long dark ringlets hung in rich profusion over her 
neck and shoulders, her cheek glowed with animation, 
her lips were half unclosed, her full dark eye was 
radiant with the light of genius, and beaming with 



I 




36 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

sensibility, her head rested on her left hand, while she 
held her pen in her right — she looked like the inhabi- 
tant of another sphere; she was so wholly absorbed 
that she did not observe my entrance. 1 looked over 
her shoulder and read the following lines : 

"What heavenly music strikes my ravish'd ear, 
So soft, so melancholy, and so clear 1 
And do the tuneful nine then touch the lyre, 
To fill each bosom with poetic fire? 
Or does some angel strike the sounding string-g 
Who caught from echo the wild note he sings'? 
But ah ! another strain, how sweet ! how wild ! 

• Now rushing low, 't is soothing, soft, and mild." 

The noise I made in leaving the room roused her, 
and she soon after brought me her " Lines to an 
iEolian Harp." During the winter of 1822 she wrote 
a. poetical romance, entitled " Rodri." She burned 
this, save a few fragments found after her death. 
These indicate a well-contrived story, and marked by 
the marvellous ease and grace that characterized her 
versification. During this winter she wrote also a 
tragedy, " The Reward of Ambition," the only pro- 
duction she ever read aloud to her family. The fol- 
lowing summer, her health again failing, she was 
withdrawn again from school, and sent on a visit to 
some friends in Canada. A letter, too long to be in- 
serted here entire, gives a very interesting account of 
the impression produced on this little thoughtful and 
feeling recluse, by new objects and new aspects of 
society. " We visited," says the writer, " the British 
fortifications at Isle-aux-Noix. The broad ditch, the 
lofty ramparts, the drawbridge, the covered gateway, 
the wide-mouthed cannon, the arsenal, and all the 
imposing paraphernalia of a military fortress, seemed 
connected in her mind with powerful associations of 
what she had read, but never viewed before. Instead 



BIOGRAPHY. 37 

of shrinking from objects associated with carnage and 
death, like many who possess not half her sensibility, 
she appeared for the moment to be attended by the 
god of war, and drank the spirit of battles and sieges, 
with the bright vision before her eyes, of conquering 
heroes, and wreaths of victory." It is curious to see 
thus early the effect of story and song in overcoming 
the instincts of nature ; to see this tender, gentle 
creature con-templating the engines of war, not with 
natural dread as instruments of torture and death, but 
rather as the forges by which triumphal cars and 
wreaths of victory were to be wrought. A similar 
manifestation of the effect of tradition and association 
on her poetic imagination is described in the following 
passages from the same letter. " She found much less 
in the Protestant than in the Catholic churches to awa- 
ken those romantic and poetic associations, created 
by the record of events in the history of antiquity and 
traditional story, and much less to accord with the 
fictions of her high-wrought imagination. In view- 
ing the buildings of the city, or the paintings in the 
churches, the same uniformity of taste was observa- 
ble. The modern, however beautiful in design or 
execution, had little power to fix her attention ; while 
the grand, the ancient, the romantic, seized upon her 
imagination with irresistible power. The sanctity of 
time seemed, to her mind, to give a sublimity to the 
simplest objects ; and whatever was connected with 
great events in history, or with the lapse of ages long 
gone by, riveted and absorbed every faculty of her 
mind. During our visit to the nunneries she said but 
little, and seemed abstracted in thought, as if, as she 
herself so beautifully expresses it, to 



" Roll back the tide of time, and raise 
The faded forms of other days." 



3* 



38 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

" She had an opportunity of viewing an elegant 
collection of paintings. She seemed in ecstasies all 
the evening, and every feature beamed with joy." 
The writer, after proceeding to give an account of 
her surprising success in attempts at pencil-sketches 
from nature, expresses his delight and amazement at 
the attainments of this girl of fourteen years in gene- 
ral literature, and at the independence and originality 
of mind that resisted the subduing, and, if I may be 
allowed the expression, the subordinating effect of this 
early intimacy with captivating models. A marvel- 
lous resistance, if we take into the account " that 
timid, retiring modesty," which, as the writer of the 
letter says, " marked her even to painful excess." 
Lucretia returned to her mother with renovated 
health, and her mind bright with new impressions 
and joyous emotions. Religion is the natural, and 
only sustaining element of such a character. Where, 
but at the ever fresh, sweet, and life-giving fountains 
of the Bible, could such a spirit have drunk, and not 
again thirsted 1 During the winter of 1823, she ap- 
plied herself more closely than ever to her studies. 
She read the Holy Scriptures with fixed attention. 
She almost committed to memory the Psalms of 
David, the Lamentations of Jeremiah, and the book 
of Job, guided in her selection by her poetic taste. 
Byron somewhere pronounces the book of Job, the 
sublimest poetry on record. During the winter Miss 
Davidson wrote " A Hymn on Creation," " The Exjt 
from Egyptian Bondage," and versified many chap- 
ters of the Bible. She read the New Testament, and 
particularly those parts of it that contained the most 
affecting passages in the history of our Saviour, with 
he deepest emotion. 

In her intellectual pursuits and attainments only 
was she premature. She retained unimpaired, the 



BIOGRAPHY. 39 

innocence, simplicity and modesty of a child. We 
have had descriptions of the extreme loveliness of 
her face, and gracefulness of her person, from less 
doubtful authority than a fond mother. 

Our country towns are not regulated by the con- 
ventional systems of the cities, where a youthful 
beauty is warily confined to the nursery and the 
school till the prescribed age for coming out, the coup- 
de-theatre of every young city-woman's life arrives. 
In the country, as soon as a girl can contribute to 
the pleasures of society, she is invited into it. During 
the winter of 1823, Plattsburgh was gay, and Miss 
Davidson was eagerly sought to embellish the village 
dances. She had been at a dancing school, and, like 
mast young persons, enjoyed excessively this natural 
exercise ; for that may be called natural which exists 
among all nations, barbarous and civilized. 

Mrs. Davidson has given an account of her daugh- 
ter's first ball, which all young ladies, at least, will 
thank us for transcribing almost verbatim, as it places 
her more within the circle of their sympathies. Her 
mother had consented to her attending one or two 
pubHc assemblies, in the hope they might diminish her 
extreme timidity, painful both to Lucretia and her 
friends. The day arrived ; Mrs. Davidson was con- 
sulting with her eldest daughter upon the all-important 
matter of the dresses for the evening ; Lucretia sat by, 
reading, without raising her eyes from the book, one 
of the Waverly novels. " Mamma, what shall Luly 
wear?" asked her eldest sister, calling her by the pretty 
diminutive by which they usually addressed her at 
home. '* Come Lucretia, what colour will you wear 
to-night'?" "Where?" " Where, why to the assem- 
bly, to be sure." "The assembly; is it to-night? so it 
is !" and she tossed away the book and danced about 
the room half wild with delight ; her sister at length 



40 IjUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

called her to order, and the momentous question re- 
specting the dress was definitely settled ; she then 
resumed her reading, and giving no thought to the 
ball, she was again absorbed in her book. This did 
not result from carelessness of appearance, or indiffer- 
ence to dress; on the contrary she was rather remark- 
able for that nice taste, which belongs to an eye for 
proportion and colouring; and any little embellishment 
or ornament she wore was well chosen, and well 
placed ; but she had the right estimate of the relative 
value of objects, which belongs to a superior mind. 
When the evening approached, the star of the ball 
again shone forth, she threw aside her book, and be- 
gan the offices of the toilet with girlish interest, and 
it might be, with some heart-beating at the probable 
effect of the lovely face her mirror reflected. Her sister 
was to arrange her hair. Lucretia put on her dress- 
ing-gown to await her convenience ; but when the 
time came, she was missing ; " we called her in vain," 
says Mrs. Davidson ; " at last, opening the parlour 
door, I distinctly saw, for it was twilight, some person 
sitting behind the large close stove ; I approached, and 
found Lucretia writing poetry ! moralizing on what 
the world calls pleasure ! I was almost dumb with 
amazement — she was eager to go, delighted with the 
prospect of pleasure before her ; yet she acted as if the 
time were too precious to spend in the necessary pre- 
parations, and she sat still, and finished the last stanza, 
while I stood by, mute with astonishment at this 
strange bearing in a girl of fourteen, preparing to 
attend her first ball, an event she had anticipated with 
so many mingled emotions." " She returned from 
the assembly," continues her mother, " wild with de- 
light. 'Oh mamma,' she said *I wish you had 
been there ! when I first entered, the glare of light 
dazzled my eyes, my head whirled, and I felt as if I 



BIOGRAPHY. 41 

were treading on air ; all was so gay, so brilliant ! 
but I grew tired at last, and was glad to hear sister 
say it was time to go home.' " 

The next day the ball was dismissed from her 
mind, and she returned to her studies with her cus- 
tomary ardour. During the winter she read " Jose- 
phus,"' Charles the Fifth, Charles Twelfth ; read over 
Shakspeare, and various other works in prose and 
■poetry ; she particularly liked " Addison," and read 
almost every day a portion of the Spectator. Her 
ardent love of literature seldom interfered with her 
social dispositions, never with her domestic affections; 
she was ever the life and joy of the home circle. 
Great demands were made on her feelings about this 
time, by two extraordinary domestic events ; the mar- 
riage and removal of her elder sister, her beloved 
friend and companion ; and the birth of another, the 
little Margaret, so often the fond subject of her poetry. 
New, and doubtless sanative emotions were called 
forth by this last event. The following lines from her 
published poems were written about this time. 

Sweet babe ! 1 cannot hope that thou 'It be freed 
From woes, to all since earliest time decreed; 
But may'st thou be with resignation blessed, 
To bear each evil, howsoe'er distressed. 

May Hope her anchor lend amid the storm. 
And o'er the tempest rear her angel form ; 
May sweet Benevolence, whose words are peace, 
To the rude whirlwind softly whisper — cease ! 

And may Religion, Heaven's own darling- child, 
Teach thee at human cares and griefs to smile; 
Teach thee to look beyond this world of woe, 
To Heaven's high fount whence mercies ever flow. 



42 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

And when this vale of tears is safely passed, 
When death's dark curtain shuts the scene at last, 
May thy freed spirit leave this earthly sod, 
And fly to seek the bosom of thy God. 

The following lines, never before published, and, as 
we think, marked by more originality and beauty, 
were written soon after, and, as those above, with her 
infant sister in her lap. What a subject for a painter 
would this beautiful impersonation of genius and love 
have presented ! 

THE SMILE OF INNOCENCE. 

(Written at the age of fifteen.) 

There is a smile of bitter scorn, 

Which curls the lip, which lights the eye; 

There is a smile in beauty's morn. 
Just rising o'er the midnight sky. 

There is a smile of youthful joy, 

When Hope's bright star's the transient guest; 
There is a smile of placid age. 

Like sunset on the billow's breast 

There is a smile — the maniac's smile. 

Which lights the void which reason leaves, 

And like the sunshine through a cloud. 
Throws shadows o'er the song she weaves. 

There is a smile, of love, of hope. 

Which shines a meteor through life's gloom; 

And there's a smile, Religion's smile, 
Which lights the weary to the tomb. 

There is a smile, an angel's smile, 

That sainted souls behind them leave. 
There is a smile which shines thro' toil, 

And warms the bosom though in grief; 



BIOGRAPHY. 49 

And there's a smile on nature's face, 

When evening spreads her shades around ; 

A pensive smile when twinkling stars 
Are glimmering thro' the vast profound. 

But there 's a smile, 't is sweeter still, 

'T is one far dearer to my soul ; 
It is a smile which angels might 

Upon their brightest list enrol. 

It is the smile of innocence. 

Of sleeping infancy's light dream ; 
Like lightning on a summer's eve. 

It sheds a soft and pensive gleam. 

It dances round the dimpled cheek, 

And tells of happiness within ; 
It smiles what it can never speak, 

A human heart devoid of sin. 

The three last most beautiful stanzas must have 
been inspired by the sleeping infant on her lap, and 
they seem to have reflected her soul's image ; as we 
have seen the little inland lake catch and give back 
the marvellous beauty of the sunset clouds. " Soon 
after her marriage," says Mrs. Davidson, " her sister, 
Mrs. Townsend, removed to Canada, and many cir- 
cumstances combined to interrupt her literary pursuits, 
and call forth, not only the energies of her mind, but 
to develope the filial devotion and total sacrifice of all 
selfish feelings, which gave a new and elevated tone 
to her character, and showed us that there was no 
gratification either in pursuance of mental improve- 
ment, or personal ease, but must bend to her high 
standard of filial duty." Her mother was very ill, 
and, to add to the calamity, her monthly nurse was 
taken sick, and left her — the infant, too, was ill. Lu- 
cretia sustained her multiplied cares with firmness 
and efficiency: the conviction that she was doing her 



44 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

duty gave her strength almost preternatural. I shall 
again quote her mother's words, for I fear to enfeeble 
by any version of my own, the beautiful example of 
this conscientious little being. '' Lucretia astonished 
us all ; she took her station in my sick room, and de- 
voted herself wholly to the mother and the child ; and 
when my recovery became doubtful, instead of re- 
signing herself to grief, her exertions were redoubled, 
not only for the comfort of the sick, but she was an 
angel of consolation to her afflicted father ; we were 
amazed at the exertions she made, and the fatigue 
she endured; for with nerves so weak, a constitution 
so delicate, and a sensibility so exquisite, we trembled 
lest she should sink with anxiety and fatigue. Until 
it ceased to be necessary, she performed not only the 
duty of a nul*se, but acted as superintendent of the 
household." When her mother became convalescent, 
Lucretia continued her attentions to domestic affairs: 
" She did not so much yield to her ruling passion as 
to look into a book, or take up a pen (says her 
mother), lest she should again become so absorbed 
in them as to neglect to perform those little offices 
which a feeble, affectionate mother had a right to 
claim at her hands. As was to be expected from the 
intimate union of soul and body, when her mind was 
starved, it became dejected and her body weak ; and, 
in spite of her filial efforts, her mother detected tears 
on her cheeks, was alarmed by her excessive pale- 
ness, and expressed her apprehensions that she was 
ill. "No, mamma," she replied, " not ill, only out of 
spirits." Her mother then remarked, that of late, she 
never read or wrote. She burst into tears, — a full 
explanation followed, and the generous mother suc- 
ceeded in convincing her child that she had been 
misguided in the course she had adopted, that the 
.stronorest wish of her heart was to advance her in 



BIOGRAPHY. 45 

her literary career, and for this she would make 
every exertion in her power; at the same time she 
very judiciously advised her to intersperse her Hterary 
pursuits with those domestic occupations so essential 
to prepare every vvoman in our land for a housewife, 
her probable destiny. 

This conversation had a most happy effect; the 
stream flowed again in its natural channel, and Lu- 
cretia became cheerful, read and wrote, and practised 
drawing. She had a decided taste for drawing, and 
excelled in it. She sung over her work, and in every 
way manifested the healthy condition that results 
from a wise obedience to the laws of nature. 

We trust there are thousands of young ladies in 
our land, who at the call of filial duty would cheer- 
fully perform domestic labour ; but if there are any 
who would make a strong love for more .elevated 
and refined pursuits, an excuse for neglecting these 
coarser duties, we would commend them to the ex- 
ample of this conscientious child. She, if any could, 
might have pleaded her genius, or her delicate 
health, or her mother's most tender indulgence, for a 
failure, that in her would have hardly seemed to us 
a fault. 

During this summer, she went to Canada with her 
mother, where she revelled in an unexplored library, 
and enjoyed most heartily the social pleasures at her- 
sisters. They frequently had a family concert of 
music in the evening. Mrs. Townsend (her sister) 
accompanied the instruments with her fine voice. 
Lucretia was often moved by the music, and par- 
ticularly by her favourite song, Moore's " Farewell 
to my Harp ;" this she would have sung to her at 
twilight, when it would excite a shivering through 
her whole frame. On one occasion, she became 
4 



46 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

cold and pale, and was near fainting, and afterwards 
poured her excited feelings forth in the following 
address : — 

TO MY SISTER. 

When evening spreads her shades around, 
And darkness fills the arch of Heaven ; 

When not a murmur, nor a sound 
To fancy's sportive ear is given; 

When the broad orb of Heaven is bright, 
And looks around with golden eye ; 

When nature, softened by her light. 
Seems calmly, solemnly to lie ; 

Then, when our thoughts are raised above 
This world, and all this world can give; 

Oh, sister, sing the song I love, 
And tears of gratitude receive. 

The song which thrills my bosom's core, 
And hovering, trembles, half afraid, 

Oh sister, sing the song once more 
Which ne'er for mortal ear was made. 

'T were almost sacrilege to sing 
Those notes amid the glare of day 

Notes borne by angels' purest wing. 
And wafted by their breath away. 

When sleeping in my grass-grown bed, 
Shouldst thou still linger here above. 

Wilt thou not kneel beside my head. 
And, sister, sing the song I love? 

We insert here a striking circumstance that occur- 
red during a visit to her sister the following year. She 
was at that time employed in writing her longest 
pubHshed poem, "Amir Khan." Immediately after 
breakfast she went to walk, and not returning to din- 



BIOGRAPHY. 47 

ner, nor even when the evening approached, Mr. 
Townsend set forth in search of her. He met her, 
and as her eye encountered his, she smiled and blush- 
ed, as if she felt conscious of having been a little 
ridiculous. She said she had called on a friend, and, 
having found her absent, had gone to her library, 
where she had been examining some volumes of an 
Encyclopedia to aid her, we believe, in the oriental 
story she was employed upon. She forgot her dinner 
and her tea, and had remained reading, standing, and 
with her hat on, till the disappearance of daylight 
brought her to her senses. In the interval between 
her visits, she wrote several letters to her friends, 
which are chiefly interesting from the indications they 
afford of her social and affectionate spirit. We sub- 
join a few extracts. She had returned to Plattsburgh 
amid the bustle of a Fourth of July celebration. 
" We found," she says, '* our brother Yankees had 
turned out well to celebrate the Fourth. The wharf 
from the hill to the very edge of the water, even the 
rafts and sloops, were black with the crowd. If some 
very good genius, who presided over my destiny at 
that time, had not spread its protecting pinions around 
me, like everything else in my possession, I should 
have lost even my precious self. What a truly la- 
mentable accident it would have been just at that 
moment ! We took a carriage, and were extricating 

ourselves from the crowd, when Mr. , who 

had pressed himself through, came to shake hands 

and bid good-bye. He is now on his way to . 

Well ! here is health, happiness, and a bushel of love 
to all married people ! Is it possible, you ask, that 
sister Lue could ever have permitted such a toast to 
pass her lips '\ We arrived safely at our good old 
home, and found everything as we left it. The chim- 
ney swallows had taken up their residence in the 



48 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

chimney, and rattled the soot from their sable habita- 
tions over the hearth and carpet. It looked like deso- 
lation indeed. The grass is high in the yard : the 
wild-roses, double-roses, and sweet-briars are in full 
bloom, and, take it all in all, the spot looks much as 
the garden of Eden did after the expulsion of Adam 
and Eve. We had just done tea when M. came in 
and sat an hour or two. What in the name of won- 
der could he have found to talk about all that time? 
Something, dear sister, you would not have thought 
of; something of so little consequence that the time he 
spent glided swiftly, almost unnoticed. I had him all 
to myself, tete-a-tete. I had almost forgotten to tell 
you I had yesterday a present of a most beautiful 
bouquet : I wore it to church in the afternoon ; but it 
has withered and faded — 

' Withered, like the world's treasures, 
Faded, like the world's pleasures.' " 

From the sort of mystical, girl-like allusions in the 
above extracts, to persons whose initials only are given, 
to bouquets and tete-a-tetes, we infer that she thus early 
had declared lovers even at this age, for she was not 
yet sixteen: her mother says she had resolved never 
to marry. " Her reasons," continues her mother, " for 
this decision were, that her peculiar habits, her entire 
devotion to books, and scribbling (as she called it), 
unfitted her for the care of a family ; she could not do 
justice to husband or children, while her whole soul 
was absorbed in literary pursuits ; she was not willing 
to resign them for any man, therefore she had formed 
the resolution to lead a single life ;" a resolution that 
would have lasted probably till she had passed under 
the dominion of a stronger passion than her love for 
the muses. With affections like hers, and a most 
lovely person and attractive manners, her resolution 



• BIOGRAPHY. 49 

t 

would scarcely have enabled her to escape the com- 
mon destiny of her sex. — The following is an extract 
from a letter written after particmating in several gay 
parties : " Indeed, my dear brother, I have turned 
round like a top, for the last two or three weeks, and 
am glad to seat myself once more in my favourite 
corner. How, think you, should 1 stand it to be 
whirled in the giddy round of dissipation? I come 
home from the blaze of light, from the laugh of mirth, 
the smile of complaisance, and seeming happiness, 
and the vision passes from my mind like the brilliant 
but transitorv hues of the rainbow ; and I think with 
regret on the many, very many happy hours I have 
passed with you and Anne. Oh ! I do want to see 
you, indeed I do, — you think me wild, thoughtless, 
and perhaps unfeeling ; but I assure you I can be 
sober, I sometimes think, and I can and do feel. — 
Why have you not written ? not one word in almost 
three weeks ! Dear brother and sister, I must write; 
but dear Anne, I am now doomed to dim your eye 
and cloud your brow, for I know that what I have to 
communicate will surprise and distress you. Our 
dear cousin John is dead ! Oh ! I need not tell you 
how much, how deeply he is lamented ; you knew 
him, and like every one else who did, you loved him. 
Poor Eliza ! how my heart aches for her ! her fi^ther, 
her mother, her brother, all gone ; almost the last, the 
dearest tie is broken which bound her to life; what 
a vacancy must there be in her heart! how fatal would 
it prove to almost every hope in life, were we allowed 
even a momentary glimpse of futurity ! for often half 
the enjoyments of life consist in the anticipation of 
pleasures, which may never be ours." Soon after this 
Lucretia witnessed the death of a beloved young 
friend ; it was the first death she had seen, and it had 
its natural effect on a reflecting and sensitive mind. 
4# 



50 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. * 

Her thoughts wandered through eternity by the light 
of religion, the only light that penetrates beyond the 
death-bed. — She wrote many religious pieces; but as 
I hope another volume of her poems will be given to 
the public, I have merely selected the following : — 

Oh, that the eagle's wing were mine, 

I 'd soar above the dreary earth ; 
I 'd spread my wings, and rise to join 

The immortal fountain of my birth. 

For what is joyl how soon it fades, 

The childish vision of an hour ! 
Though warm and brilliant are its shades, 

'Tis but a frail and fading flower. 

And what is hope? it is a light 

Which leads us on deluding ever, 
Till lost amid the shades of night 

We sink, and then it flies for ever! 

And what is love ! it is a dream, 

A brilliant fable framed by youth; 
A bubble dancing on life's stream, 

And sinking 'neath the eye of truth. 

And what are honour, glory, fame. 

But death's dark watchwords to the grave; 

The victim dies, and lo! his name 
Is stamp'd in life's red rolling wave. 

And what are all the joys of life. 

But vanity, and toil, and woe; 
What but a bitter cup of grief, 

With dregs of sin and death below. 

This world is but the first dark gate 

Unfolded to the wakening soul ; 
But death unerring led by fate. 

Shall Heaven's bright fortals backward roll. 



BIOGRAPHY. 51 

Then shall this unchained spirit fly 

On to the God who gave it life; 
Rejoicing as it soars on high, 

Released from danger, doubt, and strife. 

There will it pour its anthems forth, 

Bending before its Maker's throne; 
The great I AM, who gave it birth, 

The Almighty God, the dread unknown. 

During this winter her application to her books was 
so unremitting, that her parents again became alarmed 
for her health, and persuaded her occasionally to join 
in the amusements of Plattsburgh. She came home 
one night at twelve o'clock, from a ball, and after 
giving a most lively account of all she had seen and 
heard to her mother, she quietly seated herself at the 
table, and wrote her " Reflections after leaving a 
Ball-room." Her spirit, though it glided with kind 
sympathies into the common pleasures of youth, never 
seemed to relax its tie to the spiritual world. During 
the summer of 1824, Captain Partridge visited Platts- 
burgh, with his soldier scholars. 

Military display had its usual exciting effect on Miss 
Davidson's imagination, and she addressed " to the 
Vermont Cadets" the following spirited stanzas, which 
might have come from the martial Clorinda : — 

Pass on ! for the bright torch of glory is beaming ; 
Go, wreathe round your brows the green laurels of fame, 
Around you a halo is brilliantly streaming, 
And history lingers to write down each name. 

Yes ! ye are the pillars of liberty's throne ; 
When around you the banner of glory shall wave, 
America proudly shall claim you her own ; 
, And freedom and honour shall pause o'er each grave ! 

A watch-fire of glory, a beacon of light. 

Shall guide you to Honour, shall point you to Fame; 



92 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

The heart that shrinks back, be it buried in night, 
And withered with dim tears of sorrow and shame ! 

Though death should await you, 'twere glorious to die 
With the glow of pure honour still warm on the brow ; 
With a light sparkling brightly around the dim eye, 
Like the smile of a spirit still ling'ring below. 

Pass on, and when war in his strength shall arise, 
Rush on to the conflict and conquer or die; 
Let the clash of your arms proudly roll to the skies: 
Be blest, if victorious — and cursed, if you fly ! 

It was about this time that she finished "' Amir 
Khan," and began a tale of some length, which she 
entitled the "Recluse of the Saranac." "Amir 
Khan" has long been before the public, but we 
think it has suffered from a general and very natural 
distrust of precocious genius. The versification is 
graceful, the story beautifully developed, and the 
orientalism well sustained. We think it would not 
have done discredit to our best popular poets in the 
meridian of their fame : as the production of a girl 
of fifteen, it seems prodigious. — On her mother disco- 
vering and reading a part of her romance, Lucretia 
manifested her usual shrinkings, and with many 
tears exacted a promise that she would not again look 
at it till it was finished ; she never again saw it till 
after her daughter's death. Lucretia had a most 
whimsical fancy for cutting sheets of paper into nar- 
row strips, sewing them together and writing on both 
sides; and once playfully boasting to her mother of 
having written some yards, she produced a roll, and 
forbidding her mother's approach, she measured off 
twenty yards ! She often expressed a wish to spend 
one fortnight alone, even to the exclusion of her little 
pet-sister ; and Mrs. Davidson, eager to aflbrd her 
every gratification in her power, had a room prepared 



BIOGRAPHY. 53 

for her recess ; her dinner was sent up to her, she 
declined coming down to tea, and her mother, on 
going to her apartment, found her writing, — her plate 
untouched. 

Some secret joy- it was natural her mother should 
feel at this devotion to intellectual pleasure ; but her 
good sense or her maternal anxiety got the better of 
it, and she persuaded Lucretia to consent to the inter- 
ruption of a daily walk. It was about this period 
that she became acquainted with the gentleman who 
was destined to influence the brief space of life that 
remained to her. The late Hon. Moss Kent, with 
whom her mother had been acquainted for many 
years, previous to her marriage, had often been a 
guest at the house of Dr. Davidson, but it had so hap- 
pened that he had never met Lucretia since her early 
childhood. Struck with some Httle effusions which 

were in the possession of his sister, Mrs. P , he 

went immediately to see Mrs. Davidson, to ask the 
privilege of reading some of her last productions. 
On his way to the house he met Lucretia ; he had 
been interested by the reputation of her genius and 
modesty ; no w^onder that the beautiful form in which 
it was enshrined should have called this interest into 
sudden and effective action. Miss Davidson was just 
sixteen — her complexion w^as the most beautiful bru- 
nette, clear and brilliant, of that warm tint that seems 
to belong to lands of the sun rather than to our 
chilled regions; indeed her whole organization, mental 
as well as physical, her deep and quick sensibility, 
her early development, were characteristics of a 
warmer clime than ours ; her stature was of the mid- 
dle height, her form slight and symmetrical, her hair 
profuse, dark, and curling, her mouth and nose regu- 
lar, and as beautiful as if they had been chiselled by 
an inspired artist ; and through this fitting medium 



54 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

beamed her angelic spirit. " Mr. Kent, with all the 
enthusiasm inherent in his nature, after examining 
her common-place book, resolved, if he could induce 
her parents to resign Lucrelia to his care, to afford 
her every facility for improvement that could be ob- 
tained in the country — and in short, he proposed to 
adopt her as his own child. Her parents took the 
subject into consideration, and complied so far with 
his benevolent wishes, as to permit him to take an 
active interest in her education, deferring to future 
consideration, the question of his adopting her. Had 
she lived, they would, no doubt, have consented to 
his plan. It was, after some deliberation, decided to 
send her a few months to the Troy Seminary, and on 
the same evening she wrote the following letter to 
her brother and sister: — 

"What think you? 'ere another moon shall fill 
round as my shield," I shall be at Mrs. Willard's se- 
minary ; in a fortnight I shall probably have left 
Plattsburgh, not to return at least until the expiration 
of six months. Oh ! I am so delighted, so happy ! I 
shall scarcely eat, drink, or sleep for a month to come. 
You and Anne must both write to me often, and you 
must not laugh when you think of poor Luly in the 
far-famed city of Troy, dropping handkerchiefs, keys, 
gloves, 6z:c. ; in short, something of everything I have. 
It is well if you can read what I have written, for 
papa and mamma are talking, and my head whirls 
like a top. Oh! how my poor. head aches! Such a 
surprise as I have had !" 

On the 24th of November, 1824, she left home, 
health on her cheek and in her bosom, and flushed 
with the most ardent expectations of getting rapidly 
forward in the career her desires were fixed upon. 
But even at this moment her fond devotion to her 
mother was beautifully expressed in some stanzas, 



BIOGRAPHY. . 65 

which she left where they would meet her eye as 
soon as the parting tears were wiped away. These 
stanzas are already published, and I shall only quote 
two from them, striking for their tenderness and truth. 

"To thee my lay is due, the simple sor\g 
Which nature gave me at life's opening day; 

To thee these rude, these untaught strains belong, 
Whose heart, indulgent, will not spurn my lay ! 

•• Oh say, amid this wilderness of life 

What bosom would have throbbed like thine for me? 

Who would have smiled responsive ] Who in grief 
* Would e'er have felt, and feeling, grieved like thee 1" 

The following extracts from her letters, which were 
always filled with yearnings for home, will show that 
her affections were the strong-hold of her nature. 

" Troy Seminary, December 6th, 1824. Here I 
am at last ; and what a naughty girl I was, when I 
was at Aunt Schuyler's, that I did not write you 
everything ! But to tell the truth, 1 was topsyturvy, 
and so I am now ; but in despite of calls from the 
young ladies, and of a hundred new faces, and new 
names which are constantly ringing in my ears, I 
have set myself down, and will not rise until I have 
written an account of everything to my dear mother. 
I am contented; yet, notwithstanding, I have once 
or twice turned a wishful glance towards my dear- 
loved home. Amidst all the parade of wealth, in the 
splendid apartments of luxury, I can assure you, my 
dearest mother, that I had rather be with you in our 
awn lowly homey than in the midst of all this cere- 
mony." 

« bh, mamma, I like Mrs. Willard. * And so this 
is my girl, Mrs. Schuyler?' said she, and took me af- 
fectionately by the hand. Oh, I want to see you so 



56 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

much ! But I must not think of it now. I must learn 
as fast as I can, and think only of my studies. Dear, 
dear Httle Margaret! kiss her and the Httle boys for 
me. How is dear father getting on in this rattHng 
world ?' 

The letters that followed were tinged with melan- 
choly from her "bosom's depth,'* and her mother has 
withheld them. In a subsequent one she says, " I 
have written two long letters ; but I wrote when I 
was ill, and they savour too much of sadness. I feel 
a little better now, and have again commenced my 
studies. Mr. K. called here to-day. Oh, he is very 
good ! He stayed some time, and brought a great 
many books ; but I fear I shall have httle time to 
read aught but what appertains to my studies. I am 
consulting Karnes's Elements of Criticism, studying 
French, attending to Geological lectures, composition, 
reading, paying some little attention to painting, and 
learning to dance." 

A subsequent letter indicated great unhappiness 
and debility, and awakened her mother's apprehen- 
sions. The next was written more cheerfully. " As 
I fly to you," she says, " for consolation in all my 
sorrows, so I turn to you, my dear mother, to par- 
ticipate in all my joys. The clouds that enveloped 
my mind have dispersed, and I turn to you with a 
far lighter heart than when I last wrote. The ever 
kind Mr. K. called yesterday." She then describes 
the paternal interest he took in her health and hap- 
piness, expresses a trembling apprehension lest he 
should be disappointed in the amount of her improve- 
ment, and laments the loss of time from her frequent 
indisposition. " How, my dear mother," she says, 
" shall I express my gratitude to my kind, my excel- 
lent friend 1 Wliat is felt as deeply as I feel this 
obligation, cannot be expressed ; but I can feel, and 



BIOGRAPHY. 57 

do feel." It must be remembered that these were 
not formal and obligatory letters to her guardian, but 
the spontaneous overflowing of her heart in her pri- 
vate correspondence with her mother. 

We now come to a topic, to which we would ask 
the particular attention of our readers. Owing to 
many causes, but chiefly, we believe, to the demand 
for operatives in every department of society in our 
country, the work of school education is crowded 
into a very few years. The studies, instead of being 
selected, spread through the whole circle of sciences. 
The school period is the period of the young animal's 
physical growth and development ; the period when 
the demands of the physical nature are strongest, 
and the mental weakest. Then our young men are 
immured in colleges, law schools, divinity schools, 
&c. ; and our young ladies in boarding-schools, 
where, even in the best regulated, the provisions for 
exercise in the open air are very insufficient. In the 
city schools, we are aware, that the difficulties to be 
overcome to achieve this great object are nearly in- 
superable, we believe quite so ; and, if they are so, 
should not these establishments be placed in the coun- 
try'? Are not health and physical vigour the basis 
of mental health and vigour, of usefulness and happi- 
ness? What a proportion of the miseries of the more 
favoured classes of our females result from their in- 
validism! What feebleness of purpose, weakness of 
execution, dejection, fretfulness, mental and moral 
imbecility ! 

The case would not be so bad, if the misery ended 
with one generation, with the mother cut oft" in the 
midst of her days, or dragging on to three-score and 
ten, her unenjoyed and profitless existence. But that 
is not so : there are hosts of living witnesses in the 
sickly, pale drooping children of our nurseries. There 
5 



68 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

are multitudes who tell us that our climate will not 
permit a delicate female to exercise in the open air. 
If the climate is bad, so much the more important is 
it to acquire strength to resist it. Besides, if out-of- 
door exercise is not at all times attractive, we know it 
is not impossible. We know delicately bred females, 
who during some of our hardest winters, have not for 
more than a day or two lost their exercise abroad. 
When, in addition to the privation of pleasurable 
exercise, (for the walk in funeral procession, attended 
by martinets, and skewered by city decorums, can 
scarcely be called pleasurable,) the school-girl is con- 
fined to her tasks from eight to ten hours, in rooms 
sometimes too cold, sometimes too hot, where her 
fellow-sufferers are en masse, can we wonder at the 
result 1 

How far this evil may have operated in shortening 
ihe life of Lucretia Davidson, we cannot say ; but we 
cannot but think, that her devoted and watchful friends 
erred in sending a creature so delicate in her constitu- 
tion to any boarding-school, even the best conducted 
institution. We certainly do not mean to express or 
imply any censure of the " Troy Seminary. We 
have no personal knowledge of it ; but we believe no 
similar institution has more the confidence of the com- 
munity ; and, as it has been now many years estab- ^ 
lished and tried, it is fair to believe it deserves it. 

An arrangement of these boarding-schools, that 
bore very hard upon Miss Davidson, was the public 
examination.* These examinations are appalling to 

*I did not intend remarking upon the influence these exami- 
nations have on the scholar's progress; but I cannot forbear 
quoting the following pertinent passage from President Hopkins's 
Inaugural Address. " There are not wanting schools in this 
country, in which the real interests and progress of the pupils 
are sacrificed to their appearance at examination. But the vanity 



BIOGRAPHY. 59 

a sensitive mind. Could they be proved to be of man- 
ifest advantage to the scholarship of the young ladies, 
we should doubt their utility on the whole. But even 
where they are conducted with perfect fairness, are 
they a test of scholarship ? Do not the bold outface, 
and the indolent evade them? The studious are 
stimulated, and the sensitive and shrinking, if stimu- 
lated, are appalled and disconcerted by them, so that 
the condiment affects those only whose appetites are 
already too keen. 

But the experience of Miss Davidson is more per- 
suasive than any reasoning of ours, and we shall give 
it in her own language, in occasional extracts from 
her letters to her mother. 

" We now begin to dread the examination. Oh, 
horrible ! seven weeks, and I shall be posted up before 
all Troy, all the students from Schenectady, and per- 
haps five hundred others. What shall I do ? 

" I have just received a note from Mr. K. in which 
he speaks of your having written to him of my illness. 
I was indeed ill, and very ill, for several days, and in 
my deepest dejection wrote to you ; but do not, my 
dearest mother, be alarmed about me. My appetite 
is not perfectly good, but quite as well as when I was 
at home. The letter was just such a one as was 
calculated to soothe my feelings, and set me completely 
at rest. He expressed a wish that my stay here 
should be prolonged. What think you, mother ? I 
should be delighted by such an arrangement. This 
place really seems quite like home to me, though not 
my own dear home. I like Mrs. Willard, I love the 
girls, and I have the vanity to think I am not actually 
disagreeable to them." 

of parents must be flattered, and the memory is overburdened, 
and studies are forced on prematurely, and a system of infant- 
school instruction is carried forward into maturer life." 



60 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

We come now to another expression (partly seri- 
ous and partly bantering, for she seems to have uni- 
formly respected her instructress) of her terrors of 
" examination." 

" We are all engaged, heart and hand, preparing 
for this awful examination. Oh, how I dread it ! But 
there is no retreat. I must stand firm to my post, or 
experience all the anger, vengeance, and punishments, 
which will, in case of delinquency or flight, be exer- 
cised with the most unforgiving acrimony. We are 
in such cases excommunicated, henceforth and for 
ever, under the awful ban of holy Seminary ; and the 
evil eye of false report is upon us. Oh mamma, I do 
though, jesting apart, dread this examination ; but 
nothing short of real and absolute sickness can excuse 
a scholar in the eyes of Mrs. Willard. Even that 
will not do it to the Trojan world around us ; for if a 
young lady is ill at examination, they say, with a 
sneer, ' Oh, she is ill of an examination-fever !' Thus 
you see, mamma, we have no mercy either from 
friends or foes. We must ' do or die.'' Tell Morris 
he must write to me. Kiss dear, dear little Margaret 
for me, and don't let her forget foor sister Luly, and 
tell all who inquire for me that I am well, but in 
awful dread of a great examination." 

The following extract is from a letter to her friends, 
who had written under the impression, that all letters 
received by the young ladies were, of course, read 
by some one of the officers of the institution. 

" Lo ! just as I w^as descending from the third story, 
(for you must know I hold my head high,) your letter 
was' put into my hands. Poor little wanderer! I 
really felt a sisterly compassion for the poor little 
folded paper. I kissed it for the sake of those who 
sent it forth into the wide world, and put it into my 
bosom. But oh, when I read it ! Now, Anne, I will 



BIOGRAPHY. 61 

tell yx>u the truth ; it was cold ; perhaps it was writ- 
ten on one of your cold Canada days, or perchance 
it lost a little heat on the way. It did not seem to 
come from the very heart of hearts ; it looked as 
though it were written ' to a young lady at the Troy 
Seminary,' not to your dear, dear, dear sister Luly, 
Mr. K. has thus far been a father to me, and I thank 
him ; but I will not mock my feelings by attempting 
to say how much I thank him." 

" My dear mother ! oh how I wish I could lay my 
head upon your bosom ! I hope you do not keep my 
letters, for I certainly have burned all yours,* and I 
stood like a little fool and wept over their ashes, and 
when I saw the last one gone, I felt as though I had 
parted with my last friend." Then, after expressing 
an earnest wish that her mother would destroy her 
letters, she says, " They have no connection. When 
I write, everything comes crowding upon me at 
once ; my pen moves too slow for my brain and 
my heart, and I feel vexed at myself, and tumble in 
everything together, and a choice medley you have 
of it !" 

" I attended Mr. Ball's public (assembly) last night, 
and had a delightful evening ; but now for something 
of more importance — Ex-am-i-na-iion ! I had just 
begun to be engaged, heart and hand, preparing for 
it, when, by some means, I took a violent cold. I 
was unable to raise my voice above a whisper, and 
coughed incessantly. On the second day, Mrs. Wil- 
lard sent for Dr. Robbins ; he said I must be bled, 
and take an emetic ; this was sad ; but oh, mamma, 
I could not speak or breathe without pain." There 



* This was in consequence of a positive command from her 
mother. 

5* 



62 LUCRETIA MARL\ DAVIDSON. 

are further details of pains, remedies, and consequent 
exhaustion ; and ret this fragile and precious crea- 
ture was permitted by her physician and friends, 
kind and watchful friends too, to proceed in her sui- 
cidal preparations for examination ! There was no- 
thing uncommon in this injudiciousness. Such viola- 
tions of the laws of our physical nature are every 
day committed by persons, in other respects, the 
wisest and the best ; and our poor little martyr may 
not have suffered in vain, if her experience awakens 
attention to the subject. 

In the letter from which we have quoted above, 
and which is filled with expressions of love for the 
dear ones at home, she continues : " Tell Morris I 
will answer his letter in full next quarter, but now I 
fear I am doing wrong, for I am yet quite feeble, 
and when I get stronger, I shall be very avaricious 
of my time, in order to prepare for the coming 
week. 

" We must study morning, noon, and night. / 
shall rise between two and four now every morning, 
till the dreaded day is past. I rose the other ni^ht 
at twelve, but was ordered back to bed again. You 
see, mamma, I shall have a chance to become an 
early riser here." " Had I not written you that I 
was coming home, I think I should not have seen you 
this winter. All my friends think I had better re- 
main here, as the journey will be long and cold ; but 
oh ! there is that at the journey's end, which would 
tempt me through the wilds of Siberia — father, 
mother, brothers, sisters, home. Yes, I shall come.** 

We insert some stanzas, written about this time, 
not so much for their poetical merit, as for the play- 
ful spirit that beams through them, and which seems 
like sunbeams smiling on a cataract. 



BIOGRAPHY. 63 

A WEEK BEFORE EXAMINATION. 

One has a headache, one a cold, 
One has her neck in flannel rolled; 
Ask the complaint, and you are told 

' Next week's examination.* 

One frets and scolds, and laughs and cries, 
Another hopes, despairs, and sighs ; 
Ask but the cause, and each replies, 

' Next week's examination.' 

One bans her books, then grasps them tight, 
And studies morning, noon, and night. 
As though she took some strange delight 
' In these examinations.' 

The books are marked, defaced, and thumbed. 
The brains with midnight tasks benumbed, 
Still all in that account is summed, 

' Next week's examination.' 

In a letter, February 10th, she says, " The dreaded 
work of examination is now going on, my dear mo- 
ther. To-morrow evening, which will be the last, 
and is always the most crowded, is the time fixed 
upon for my entree upon the field of action. Oh ! 
I hope I shall not disgrace myself. It is the rule 
here to reserve the best classes till the last; so I 
suppose I mav take it as a compliment that we are 
delayed." 

" February 12th. The examination is over. E 

E did herself and her native village honour ; but 

as for your poor Luly, she acquitted herself, I trust, 
decently ! Oh ! mamma, I was so frightened ! but, 
although my face glowed and my voice trembled, I 
did make out to get through, for I knew my lessons. 
The room was crowded almost to suffocation. All 
was still — the fall of a pin could have been heard — 



64 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

and I tremble when I think of it even now." No one 
can read these melancholy records without emotion. 

Her visit home during the vacation was given up, 
in compliance with the advice of her guardian. " I 
wept a good long hour or so," she says, with her 
characteristic gentle acquiescence, " and then made 
up my mind to be content." 

In her next letter she relates an incident very 
striking in her eventful life. 

It occurred in returning to Troy, after her vaca- 
tion, passed happily with her friends in the vicinity. 
"Uncle went to the ferry with me," she says, " where 
we met Mr. Paris. Uncle placed me under his care, 
and, snugly seated by his side, I expected a very plea- 
sant ride, with a very pleasant gentleman. All was 
pleasant, except that we expected every instant that 
all the ice in the Hudson would come drifting against 
us, and shut in scow, stage, and all, or sink us to the 
bottom, which, in either case, you know, mother, 
would not have been quite so agreeable. We had 
just pushed from the shore, I watching the ice with 
anxious eyes, when, lo! the two leaders made a tre- 
mendous plunge, and tumbled headlong into the river. 
I felt the carriage following fast after ; the other two 
horses pulled back with all their power, but the lead- 
ers were dragging them down, dashing and plunging, 
and flouncing in the water. ' Mr. Paris, in mercy let 
us get out !' said I. But, as he did not see the horses, 
he felt no alarm. The moment I informed him they 
were overboard, he opened the door, and cried, ' Get 
out and save yourself, if possible ; I am old and stiff, 
but I will follow in an instant.' ' Out with the lady ! 
let the lady out !' shouted several voices at once ; ' the 
other horses are about to plunge, and then all will be 
over.* I made a lighter spring than many a lady 
does in a cotillion, and jumped upon a cake of ice. 



BIOGRAPHY. 65 

Mr. Paris followed, and we stood, (I trembling like a 
leaf,) expecting every instant that the next plunge of 
the drowning horses would detach the piece of ice 
upon which we were standing, and send us adrift ; 
but, thank Heaven, after working for ten or fifteen 
nninutes, by dint of ropes, and cutting them away 
from the other horses, they dragged the poor crea- 
tures out, more dead than alive. 

" Mother, don't you think I displayed some cou- 
rage ? I jumped into the stage again, and shut the 
door, while Mr. Paris remained outside, watching the 
movement of aflairs. We at length reached here, and 
I am alive, as you see, to tell the story of my woes." 

In her next letter she details a conversation with 
Mrs. Willard, full of kind commendation and good 
counsel. " Mamma," she concludes, " you would be 
justified in thinking me a perfect lump of vanity and 
egotism ; but I have always related to you every 
thought, every action of my life. I have had no con- 
cealments from you, and I have stated these matters 
to you because they fill me with surprise. Who 
would think the accomplished Mrs. Willard would 
admire my poor daubing, or my poor anything else ! 
Oh, dear mamma, I am so happy now I so contented ! 
Every unusual movement startles me. I am con- 
stantly afraid of something to mar it." 

The next extract is from a letter, the emanation of 
her affectionate spirit, to a favourite brother seven 
years old. 

" Dear L , I am obliged to you for your two 

very interesting epistles, and much doubt whether I 
could spell more ingeniously myself Really, I have 
some idea of sending them to the printers, to be struck 
off in imitation of a Chinese puzzle. Your questions 
about the stars I have been cogitating some time past, 
and am of the opinion, that, if there are beings inha- 



66 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

biting tnose heavenly regions, they must be content to 
feed, cameleon-like, upon air ; for even were we dis- 
posed to spare them a portion of our earth sufficient 
to plant a garden, I doubt whether the attraction of 
gravitation would not be too strong for resistance, and 
the unwilling clod return to its pale brethren of the 
valley ' to rest in ease inglorious.' So far from burn- 
ing your precious letters, my dear little brother, I 
carefully preserve them in a little pocket-book, and 
when I feel lonely and desolate, and think of my dear 
home, I turn them over and over again. Do write 
often, my sweet little correspondent, and believe me," 
&c. &c. 

Her next letter to her mother, written in March, 
was in a melancholy strain ; but as if to avert her 
parent's consequent anxieties, she concludes : 

" I hope you will feel no concern for my health or 
happiness. Do, my dear mother, try to be cheerful, 
and have good courage." 

" I have been to the Rensselaer school, to attend 
the philosophical lectures. They are delivered by 
the celebrated Mr. Eaton, who has several students, 
young gentlemen. I hope they will not lose their 
hearts among twenty or thirty pretty girls. For my 
part, I kept my eyes fixed as fast as might be upon 
the good old lecturer, as I am of the opinion that he 
is the best possible safeguard, with his philosophy and 
his apparatus ; for you know philosophy and love are 
sworn enemies !" 

Miss Davidson returned to Plattsburgh during the 
spring vacation. Her mother, when the first rapture 
of reunion was over, the first joy at finding her child 
unchanged in the modesty and naturalness of her 
deportment, and fervour of her afiections, became 
alarmed at the indications of disease, in the extreme 
fragility of her person, and the deep and fluctuating 



BIOGRAPHY. 67 

colour of her cheek. Lucretia insisted, and, deceived 
by that ever-deceiving disease, believed she was well. 
She was gay and full of hope, and could hardly be 
persuaded to submit to her father's medical prescrip- 
tions ; but the well-known crimson spot, that so often 
flushed her cheek, was regarded by him with the 
deepest anxiety, and he shortly called counsel During 
her stay at home she wrote a great deal. Like the 
bird, which is to pass away with the summer, she 
seems to have been ever on the wing, pouring forth 
the spontaneous melodies of her soul. The following 
are a few stanzas from a piece 

"ON SPRING." 

I have seen the fair Spring, I have heard her sweet song", 
As she passed in her lightness and freshness along ; 
The blue wave rolled deeper, the moss-crest looked bright, 
As she breathed o'er the regions of darkness and night. 

I have seen the rose bloom on the youthful cheek, 
And the dew of delight 'neath the bright lash break; 
The bounding footstep, scarce pressing the earth, 
And the lip which speaks of a soul of mirth. 

I have seen the winter with brow of care, 
"With his soulless eye and his snow-white hair ; 
And whate'er his footsteps had touched was cold, 
As the lifeless stone which the sculptors mould. 

As I knelt by the sepulchre, dreary and lone, 

Lay the beautiful form in its temple of stone; 

I looked for its coming, — the warm wind passed by, — 

I looked for its coming on earth and on high. 

The young leaves gleamed brightly around the cold spot, 
I looked for the spirit, yet still it came not. 
Shall the flower of the valley burst forth to the light, 
And man in his beauty lie buried in night] 



68 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

A voice on the waters, a voice in the sky, 
A voice from beneath, and a voice from on high, 
Proclaims that he shall not, — that Spring, in her light, 
Shall waken the spirit from darkness and night. 

These were singular speculations for a beautiful 
girl of sixteen. Were there not spirits ministering to 
her from that world to which she was hastening ? 

The physician, called in to consult with her father, 
was of opinion that a change of air and scene would 
probably restore her, and it was decided, in compli- 
ance with her own wishes, that she should return to 
school. Miss Gilbert's boarding-school, at Albany, 
was selected for the next six months. There are few 
more of her productions of any sort, and they seem 
to us to have the sweetness of the last roses of sum- 
mer. The following playful passages are from her 
last letter at home to her sister in Canada. 

" The boat will be here in an hour or two, and I 
am all ready to start. Oh, I am half sick. I have 
taken several doses of something quite delectable for 
a visiting treat. Now," she concludes her letter, 
" by your affection for me, by your pity for the wan- 
derer, by your remembrance of the absent, by your 
love for each other, and by all that is sacred to an 
absent friend, I charge you, write to me, and write 
often. As ye hope to prosper, as ye hope your boy 
to prosper, (and grow fat !) as ye hope for my grati- 
tude and affection now and hereafter, I charge you, 
write. If ye sinfully neglect this last solemn injunc- 
tion of a parting friend, my injured spirit will visit 
you in your transgressions. It shall pierce you with 
goosequills, and hurl down upon your recreant heads 
the brimming contents of the neglected inkstand. 
.This is my threat, and this is my vengeance. But 
if, on the contrary, ye shall see fit to honour me with 
numerous epistles, which shall be duly answered, 



BIOGRAPHY. 69 

know ye, that I will live and love you, and not only 
you, but your boy ! So you see upon your own bear- 
ing depends the future fate of the little innocent, * to 
be beloved, or not to be beloved !' They have come ! 
Farewell, a long farewell !" — 

She proceeded to Albany, and 'in a letter dated 
May 12th, 1825, she seems delighted with her recep- 
tion, accommodations, and prospects, at Miss Gilbert's 
school. She has yet no anxieties about her health, 
and enters on her career of study with her customary 
ardour. With the most delicate health and constant 
occupation, she found time always to write long let- 
ters to her mother, and the little children at home 
filled with fond expressions. What an example and 
rebuke to the idle school-girl who finds no time for 
these minor duties ! But her studies, to which she 
applied herself beyond her strength, from the con- 
scientious fear of not fulfilling the expectations of her 
friends, were, exhausting the sources of life. Her 
letters teem with expressions of gratitude to her 

friend Mr. K , to Miss Gilbert, and to all the 

friepds around her. She complains of debility and 
want of appetite, but imputes all her ailings to not 
hearing regularly from home. The mails were of 
course at fault, for her mother's devotion never in- 
termitted. The following expressions will show that 
her sensibility, naturally acute, was rendered intense 
by physical disease and suffering. 

" Oh, my dear mother, cannot you send your Luly 
one line ? Not one word in two weeks ! I have done 
nothing but weep all day long. I feel so wretchedly! 
I am afraid you are ill." 

" I am very wretched, indeed I am. My dear 

mother, am I never to hear from you again? I am 

homesick. I know I am foolish ; but I cannot help 

it. To tell the truth, I am half sick. I am so weak, 

6 



70 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

SO languid, I cannot eat. I am nervous, I know I 
am ; I weep most of the time. I have blotted the 
paper so, that I cannot write. I cannot study much 
longer if I do not hear from you." 

Letters from home renovated her for a few days, 
and at Mr. K.'s request, she went to the theatre, and 
gave herself up, with all the freshness of youthful 
feeling, to the spells of the drama, and raved about 
Hamlet and Ophelia like any other school-girl. 

But her next letter recurs to her malady, and for 
the first time, she expresses a fear that her disease is 
beyond the reach of common remedies. Her mother 
was alarmed, and would have gone immediately to 
her, but she was herself confined to her room by ill- 
ness. Her father's cooler judgment inferred from 
their receiving no letters from Lucretia's friends, 
that there was nothing immediately alarming in her 
symptoms. 

The next letter removed every doubt. It was 
scarcely legible ; still she assures her mother she is 
better, and begs she will not risk the consequences of 
a long journey. But neither health nor life weighed 
now with the mother against seeing her child. She 
set ofl^, and by appointment, joined Mr. K. at White- 
hall. They proceeded thence to Albany, where, after 
the first emotions of meeting were over, Lucretia said, 
*' Oh mamma, I thought I should never have seen you 
again ! But, now I have you here, and can lay my 
aching head upon your bosom, I shall soon be better." 

For a few days the balm seemed effectual; she 
was better, and the physicians believed she would 
recover ; but her mother was no longer to be per- 
suaded from her conviction of the fatal nature of the 
disease, and arrangements were immediately made 
to convey her to Plattsburgh. The journey was ef- 



BIOGRAPHY. 71 

fected, notwithstanding it was during the heats of 
July, with less physical suffering than was appre- 
hended. She shrunk painfully from the gaze her 
beauty inevitably attracted, heightened as it was by 
that disease which seems to delight to deck the vic- 
tim for its triumph. " Her joy upon finding herself 
at home," says her mother, " operated for a time like 
magic." The sweet health-giving influence of do- 
mestic love, the home atmosphere, seemed to suspend 
the progress of her disease, and again her father, 
brothers and friends were deluded ; all but the mo- 
ther and the sufferer. She looked, with prophetic 
eye, calmly to the end. There was nothing to dis- 
turb her. That kingdom that cometh " without ob- 
servation" was within her, and she was only about 
to change its external circumstances, about to put off 
the harness of life in which she had been so patient 
and obedient. To the last she manifested her love 
of books. A trunk filled with them had not been 
unpacked. She requested her mother to open it at 
her bed-side, and as each book was given to her, she 
turned over the leaves, kissed it, and desired to have 
it placed on a table at the foot of her bed. There 
they remained to the last, her eye often fondly resting 
on them. 

She expressed a strong desire to see Mr. Kent 
once more, and a fear that though he had been sum- 
moned, he might not arrive in time. He came, how- 
ever, to receive the last expressions of her gratitude, 
and to hear his own name the last pronounced by 
her lips. 

The " Fear of Madness" was written by her while 
confined to her bed, and was the last piece she ever 
wrote. As it constitutes a part of the history of her 
disease, it is, though already published, inserted here. 



72 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

There is a something which I dread, 

It is a dark and fearful thing; 
It steals along with withering tread, 

Or sweeps on wild destruction's wing. 

That thought comes o'er me in the hour 

Of grief, of sickness, or of sadness ; 
'T is not the dread of death; 'tis more, — . 

It is the dread of madness. 

Oh ! may these throbbing pulses pause, 

Forgetful of their feverish course ; 
May this hot brain, which, burning, glows 

With all a fiery whirlpool's force, 

Be cold, and motionless, and still 

A tenant of its lowly bed ; 
But let not dark delirium steal — 
(Unfinished.) 

That the records of the last scenes of Lucretia 
Davidson's life are scanty, is not surprising. The 
materials for this memoir, it must be remembered, 
"were furnished by her mother. A victim stretched 
on the rack cannot keep records. She says in general 
terms, *' Lucretia frequently spoke to me of her ap^ 
proaching dissolution, with perfect calmness, and as 
an event that must soon take place. In a conversa- 
tion with Mr. Townsend, held at intervals, as her 
strength would permit, she expressed the same senti- 
ments she expressed to me before she grew so weak. 
She declared her firm faith in the Christian religion, 
her dependence on the divine promises, which she 
said had consoled and sustained her during her illness. 
She said her hopes of salvation were grounded on the 
merits of her Saviour, and that death, which had 
once looked so dreadful to her, was now divested of 
all its terrors." 

Welcome, indeed, should that messenger have been. 



BIOGRAPHY. 73 

that opened the gates of knowledge, and blissful im- 
mortality, to such a spirit ! 

During Miss Davidson's residence in Albany, which 
was less than three months, she wrote several miscel- 
laneous pieces, and began a long poem, divided into 
cantos, and entitled *' Maritorne, or the Pirate of 
Mexico." This she deemed better than anything she 
had previously produced. The amount of her com- 
positions, considering the shortness and multifarious 
occupations of a life of less than seventeen years, is 
surprising.* 

We copy the subjoined paragraph from the bio- 
graphical sketch prefixed to " Amir Khan." " Her 
poetical writings, which have been collected, amount 
in all to two hundred and seventy-eight pieces of 
various lengths. When it is considered, that there 
are among these at least five regular poems, of several 
cantos each, some estimate may be formed of her 
poetical labours. Besides these were twenty-four 
school exercises, three unfinished romances, a com- 
plete tragedy, written at thirteen years of age, and 
about forty letters, in a few months, to her mother 
alone." This statement does not comprise the large 
proportion (at least one-third of the whole) which she 
destroyed. 

The genius of Lucretia Davidson has had the meed 
of far more authoritative praise than ours. The 
following tribute is from the " London Quarterly 
Review ;" a source whence praise of American pro- 
ductions is as rare as springs, in the desert. The 
notice is by Mr. Southey, and is written with the 
earnest feeling that characterizes that author, as 
generous as he is discriminating. " In these poems," 

* She died on the 27th of August, 1825, just a month before 
her seventeenth birthday. 
6* 



7A LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

(Amir Khan, &c.) " tliere is enough of originality, 
enough of aspiration, enough of conscious energy, 
enough of growing power, to warrant any expecta- 
tions, however sanguine, which the patrons, and the 
friends, and parents of the deceased could have 
formed." 

But, prodigious as the genius of this young creature 
was, still marvellous after all the abatements that 
may be made for precociousness and morbid develop- 
ment, there is something yet more captivating in 
her moral loveliness. Her modesty was not the 
infusion of another mind, not the result of cultivation, 
not the eflect of good taste ; nor was it a veil cau- 
tiously assumed and gracefully worn ; but an innate 
quality, that made' her shrink from incense, even 
though the censer were sanctified by love. Her 
mind was like the exquisite mirror, that cannot be 
stained by human breath. 

Few may have been gifted with her genius, but all 
can imitate her virtues. There is a universality in the 
holy sense of duty, that regulated her life. Few young 
ladies will be called on to renounce the muses for do- 
mestic duties ; but many may imitate Lucretia David- 
son's meek self-sacrifice, by relinquishing some favour- 
ite pursuit, some darling object, for the sake of an 
humble and unpraised duty ; and, if few can attain her 
excellence, all may imitate her in gentleness, humility, 
industry, and fidelity to her domestic afiections. We 
may apply to her the beautiful lines, in which she 
describes one of those 

-forms, that, wove in Fancy's loom, 



Float in light visions round the poet's head.'* 

"She was a being formed to love and bless. 
With lavish nature's richest loveliness; 
Such I have often seen in Fancy's eye, 
Beings too bright for dull mortality. 



BIOGRAPHY. 75 

I 've Been them in the vieionB of the nig^ht, 
I 've faintly seen them when enough of light 
And dim distinctness gave them to my gaze, 
As forms of other worlds, or brighter days.'* 

This memoir may be fitly concluded by the follow 
ng " Tribute to the Memory of my Sister," by Mar- 
garet Davidson, who was but two years old at the 
time of Lucretia's death, and whom she often men- 
tions with peculiar fondness. The lines were written 
at the age of eleven. May we be allowed to say, that 
the mantle of the elder sister has fallen on the younger, 
and that she seems to be a second impersonation of 
her spirit ? 

" Though thy freshness and beauty are laid in the tomb. 
Like the floweret which drops in its verdure and bloom; 
Though the halls of thy childhood now mourn thee in vain. 
And thy strains shall ne'er waken their echoes again, 
Still o'er the fond memory they silently glide, 
Still, still thou art ours, and America's pride. 
Sing on thou pure seraph, with harmony crowned, 

And pour the full tide of thy music along. 
O'er the broad arch of Heaven the sweet note shall rescniDd, 

And a bright choir of angels shall echo the song 
The pure elevation which beamed from thine eye. 
As it turned to its home in yon fair azure sky. 
Told of something unearthly; it shone with the light 
Of pure inspiration and holy delight. 
Round the rose that is withered a fragrance remains; 
O'er beauty in ruins the mind proudly reigns. 
Thy lyre has resounded o'er ocean's broad wave. 
And the tear of deep anguish been shed o'er thy grave; 
But thy spirit has mounted to mansions on high, 
To the throne of its God, where it never can die." 



POETICAL REMAINS. 



C77) 



AN ADDRESS TO MY MUSE. 

(Written in her fourteenth year.) 

Why, gentle Muse, wilt thou disdain 
To lend thy strains to me? 

Why do I supplicate in vain 
And bow my heart to thee ? 

Oh ! teach me how to touch the lyre, 
To tune the trembling chord ; 

Teach me to fill each heart with fire, 
And melting strains afford. 

Sweep but thy hand across the string, 
The woodlands echo round, 

And mortals wond'ring, as you sing, 
Delighted catch each sound. 

Enchanted when thy voice I hear, 

I drop each earthly care ; 
I feel as wafted from the world 

To Fancy's realms of air. 

Then as I wander, plaintive sing. 
And teach me every strain; 

Teach me to touch the trembling string 
Which now I strike in vain. 

(79) 



AMIR KHAN. 

(Written in her sixteenth year.) 



PART I. 

Brightly o'er spire, and dome, and tower. 
The pale moon shone at midnight hour, 
While all beneath her smile of light 
Was resting there in calm delight ; 
Evening with robe of stars appears, 
Bright as repentant Peri's tears. 
And o'er her turban's fleecy fold 
Night's crescent stream'd with rays of gold, 
While every crystal cloud of Heaven 
Bowed as it passed the queen of even. 

Beneath — calm Cashmere's lovely vale^ 
Breathed perfumes to the sighing gale ; 
The amaranth and tuberose, 
Convolvulus in deep repose, 
Bent to each breeze which swept their bed, 
Or scarcely kissed the dew, and fled 
The bulbul, with his lay of love -? 
Sang, 'mid the stillness of the grove ; 
The gulnare blushed a deeper hue,'* 
And trembling shed a shower of dew, 
Which perfumed ere it kiss'd the ground, 
Each zephyr's pinion hovering round. 

7 " (81) 



82 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

The lofty plane-tree's haughty brow* 
Glitter'd beneath the nnoon's pale glow; 
And wide the plantain's arms were spread,* 
The guardian of its native bed. 

Where was Amreta at this hour? 

Say! was she slumb'ring in her bower? 

Or gazing on this scene of rest, 

Less calm, less peaceful than her breast? 

Or was she resting in the dream 

Of brighter days, on Fortune's stream ? 

Or was she weeping Friendship broken, 

Or sighing o'er Love's wither'd token ? 

No ! — she was calmly resting there, 
Her eye ne'er spoke of hope nor fear. 
But 'mid the blaze of splendour round. 
For ever bent upon the ground. 
Their long, dark lashes hid from view. 
The brilliant glances which they threw. 
Her cheek was neither pale nor red ; 
The rose, upon its summer bed, 
Could never boast so faint a hue ; 
So faint, and yet so brilliant too ! 

Though round her. Cashmere's incense streamed; 
Though Persia's gems around her beamed ; 
Though diamonds of Golconda shed 
Their warmest lustre o'er her head 
Though music lulled each fear to sleep. 
Or like the night-wind o'er the deep ; 
Just waking love and calm delight, 
Kindling Hope's watch-fire clear and bright; 
For her, though Cashmere's roses twine 
Together round the parent vine ; 



POETICAL REMAINS. 83 

And though to her, as Cashmere's star, 

Knelt the once haugh.ty Subahdar f 

Still, still, Amreta gazed unmoved. 

Nor sighed, nor smiled, nor owned she loved! 

But, Hke the Parian marble there. 

So bright, so exquisitely fair, 

She seemed by Nature famed to bless. 

Rich in surpassing loveliness. 

But never from those lips of red 

A single syllable had fled. 

Since Amir Khan first blessed the hour^ 

That placed Amreta in his bovver ; 

Within that bower, 'mid twining roses, 

Upon ivhose leaves the breeze reposes. 

She sits unmoved, while round her flow, 

Strains of sweet music, sad and low; 

Qr now, in softer numbers breathing, 

A song of love and sorrow wreathing. 

Such strains as in wild sweetness ran 

Through the sad breast of Amir Khan ! 

He loved, — and oh! — he loved so well 
That sorrow scarce dared break the spell ; 
Though oft Suspicion whispered near 
One vague, one sadly boding fear, 
A fear that Heaven in wrath had made 
That face with seraph-charms array'd. 
And then denied in mockery there, 
To breathe upon a face so fair ! 
Without that spark of heav'niy flame. 
Which burns unchanging, still the same, 
Without that bright ethereal charm. 
Oh ! what were beauty's angel form ? 

The breeze as it sweeps o'er the poisonous flow'r. 
Dripping with night's damp blistering show'r, 



84 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Laden with woe, disease, and death, 

Fading youth's bloom with its passing breath, 

Blighting each flower of various hue, 

Ne'er o'er its fated victim threw 

So dark a shade, a cloud so drear, 

As hovered o'er the Subahdar. 

Cool and refreshing sighs the breeze 
Through the long walk of tzinnar- trees,* 
And cool upon the water's breast 
The pale moon rocks herself to rest, — 
Yes ! calmer, brighter, cooler far 
Than the fever'd brow of the Subahdar ! 

Amreta was fair as the morning beam. 

As it glides o'er the wave of the Wuller's stream,' 

Bat oh ! she was cold as the marble floor 

That glitters beneath the nightly shower. 

Where was that eye which none could scan. 

Which once belonged to Amir Khan ? 

Where was that voice that mocked the storm ? 

Where was that tall, majestic form ? 

That eye was turn'd in love and woe 

Upon Amreta's changeless brow, 

That haughty form was bending low. 

That voice was utt'ring vow on vow, 

Beneath the lofty plane-tree's shade. 

Before that cold Circassian maid ! 

" Oh speak, Amreta ! — but one word I 
Let one soft sigh confess I'm heard ! 
Those eyes (than those of yon gazelle 
More bright) a tale of love might tell ! 
Then speak, Amreta ! raise thine eye. 
Blush, smile, or answer with a sigh.'* 



POETICAL REMAINS. 

But 'twas in vain — no sigh — no word 
Told that his humble suit was heard ; 
Veiled 'neath their silken lashes there, 
Her dark eyes glanc'd no answered pray'r, 
Upon her cheek no blush was straying, 
Around her lip no smile was playing. 
And calm despair reigned darkly now, 
O'er Amir Khan's deep-clouded brow. 

What pity that so fair a form 

Should want a heart with feeling warm ! 

What pity that an eye so bright 

Should beam o'er Reason's clouded night ! 

And like a star on Mahmoud's wave,^° 

Should glitter o'er a dreary grave : 

A dark abyss — a sunless day, 

An endless night without one ray. 

*T was at that day, that silent hour, 
When the tall poppy sheds its show'r, 
When all on earth, and all on high 
Seemed breathing slumber's sweetest sigh; 
At that calm hour when Peris love 
To gaze upon the Heaven above, 
Whose portals, bright with many a gem, 
Are closed — for ever closed on them; 
'Twas at this silent, solemn hour, 
That, gliding from his summer bower, 
The Subahdar with noiseless step 
Steals like the night-breeze o'er the deep. 

Where glides the haughty Subahdar? 
Onward he glides to where afar 
Proud Hirney-Purvet rears his head" 
High above Cashmere's blooming bed, 

7 * 



86 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

And twines his turban's fleecy fold 
With many a brilliant ray of gold, 
Or places on his brow of blue 
The crescent with its silver hue ; 

There 'neath a plantain's sacred shade, 
Which deep, and dark, and widely spread, ^ 
Al Shinar's high prophetic form 
Held secret counsel with the storm ; 
His hand had grasped, with fearless might, 
The mantle of descending night ; 
Such matchless skill the prophet knew, 
Such wond'rous feats his hand could do. 
That Persia's realm astonished saw, 
And Cashmere's valley gazed with awe ! 

Low bowed the lofty Amir Khan, 
Before the high and mighty man. 
And bending o'er the Naptha's stream. 
Which onward rolled its fiery gleam. 
The Subahdar in murmurs told 
Of beauteous form, of bosom cold, 
Of rayless eye, of changeless cheek. 
Of tongue which could or would not speak. 

At length the mourner's tale had ceased, 

He crossed his hands upon his breast, 

He spoke no word, he breathed no sigh, 

But keenly fixed his piercing eye 

Upon Al Shinar's gloomy brow. 

In all the deep despair of woe; 

The Prophet paused ; — his eye he raised, 

And stern and earnestly he gazed. 

As if to pierce the sable veil 

Which would conceal the mournful tale ; — 



POETICAL REMAINS. 87 

When, starting with a sudden blow, 
He op'd a portal dark and low, 
Which shrouded from each mortal eye 
Al Shinar's cavern broad and high ; 
'T was bright, 't was exquisitely bright, 
For founts of rich and living light 
There poured their burning treasures forth, 
Which sought again their parent earth. 

Rich vases, with sweet incense streaming, 
Mirrors a flood of brilliance beaming. 
Fountain, and bath, and curling stream. 
At every turn before them beam ; 
And marble pillars, pure and cold. 
And glitt'ring roof, inlaid with gold. 
And gems, and diamonds met his view 
In wild and rich profusion too; 
And had Amreta's smiles been given. 
This place had been the Moslem heaven ! 

The Prophet paused; — while Amir Khan 
Gazed, awe-struck, on the wond'rous man; 
AI Shinar plucked a pale blue flower, 
Which bent beneath the fountain's show'r, 
Then slowly turned towards Amir Khan, 
And placed the treasure in his hand. 

" Mark me !" he cried ; — " this pensive flower, 
Gathered at midnight's magic hour. 
Will charm each passion of the breast. 
And calm each throbbing nerve to rest; 
*T will leave thy bounding bosom warm, 
Yet set death's seal upon thy form ; 
'T will leave thee stiff) and cold, and pale, 
A slumberer 'neath an icy veil, 



88 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

But still shall Reason's conscious reign 
Unbroken, undisturbed remain, 
And thou shalt hear, and feel, and know 
Each sigh, each touch, each throb of woe !" 

Go, thou ! and if Amreta be 
Worthy of love, and worthy thee, 
When she beholds thee pale and cold, 
Wrapped in the damp sepulchral fold ; — 
When her eye wanders for that glow 
Once burning on thy marble brow ; 
Then, if her bosom's icy frame 
Hath ever warmed 'neath passion's flame, 
'Twill heave tumultuous as it glows 
Like Baikal's everlasting throes; 
And if, to-morrow eve, you press 
This pale cold flow'ret to your breast, 
Ere morning smiles, its spell will prove 
If that cold heart be worth thy love ! — 



PART II. 

There 's silence in the princely halls, 
And brightly blaze the lighted walls, 
While clouds of musk and incense rise 
From vases of a thousand dyes, 
And roll their perfumed treasures wide, 
In one luxuriant, fragrant tide; 
And glittering chandeliers of gold, 
Reflecting fire from every fold, 
Hung o'er the shrouded body there, 
Of Cashmere's once proud Subahdar ! 
The crystal's and the diamond's rays 
Kindled a wide and brilliant blaze; 



POETICAL REMAINS. . 89 

The ruby's blush, the coral's hue, 
By Peris dipped in Henni's dew, * 
The topaz's rich and golden ray, 
The opal's flame — the agate grey, 
The amethyst of violet hue, 
The sapphire with its heav'nly blue, 
The snow-white jasper sparkling there 
Near the carbuncle's deep'ning glare ; 
The warm cornelian's blushing glow 
Reflected back the brilliant flow 
Of light, which in refulgent streams, 
O'er hall, o'er bower, and fountain beams. 

O'er beds of roses, bright with dew, 
Unfolding modestly to view. 
Each trembling leaf, each blushing breast, 
In Cashmere's wildest sweetness dressed; 
Through vistas long, through myrtle bowsers, 
Where Amir Khan once passed his hours 
In gazing on Amreta's face, 
So full of beauty, full of grace. 
Through veils of silver bright and clear. 
It poured its softened radiance far; 
Or beamed in pure and milky brightness, 
O'er urns of alabaster whiteness ; 
Through Persian screens of glittering gold. 
O'er many an altar's sacred fold. 
Where to Eternity will blaze 
The naphtha's never-fading rays. 
The Gheber's fire which dieth never. 
But burns, and beams, and glows for ever! 

'Twas silent — not a voice was heard — 
No sigh, no murmur, not one word. 
Was echoed through that brilliant hall, 
The spell of silence hung o'er all ; 



90 LyCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

For there had paused the wing of death, 
The midnight spirit's withering breath. 

At that still hour no sound arose 
To break the charm of deep repose ; 
The lake was glittering, and the breeze 
Sighed softly through the the tzinnar trees, 
And kissed the Wuller's wave of blue, 
Or sipped the gull's light trembling dew ; 
But not a murmur, not a sigh 
Was wafted by the night-breeze by. 
Through that wide hall and princely bower, 
At midnight's calm and solemn hour ! 

Oh 1 where was Love, his night-watch keeping ? 
Or was the truant sweetly sleeping? 
Where was he at that hour of rest. 
By him created, claimed, and blessed? 
Where were the tears of Love, and Sorrow, 
The sigh which sympathy can borrow ? 
Where were regret, and chill despair? 
Where was Amreta? — where. Oh where? 

Hark ! 't is the night-breeze, softly playing. 
Through veils of glittering silver straying — 
No ! 't is a step — so quick, so light, 
That the wild flower which weeps at night, 
Would raise again its drooping head. 
To greet the footstep which had fled. 

'Tis not the breeze which floats around, 
Lifting the light veil from the ground; 
No ! 't is a form of heav'nly mien 
Hath dared to draw the curtain's screen. 

Dimly, behind the fluttering veil. 
Which trembles in the breathing gale, 



POETICAL REMAINS. 91 

A form appears of seraph mould 
As 'neath a light cloud's fleecy fold; 
The veil is drawn with hasty hand, 
Loosed is the rich embroidered band — 
'Tis solemn solitude around, 
There 's not a murmur, not a sound — 
Again a snowy hand is seen. 
Again is raised the silken screen, 
And lo ! with light and noiseless tread, 
Amreta glided from its shade ! ' 

Her veil was fluttering in the air, 
Her brow, as Parian marble fair, 
Was glittering bright with many a gem 
Set in a brilliant diadem ; 
Her long dark hair was floating far. 
Braided with many a diamond star ; 
Her eye was raised, and Oh ! that eye 
Seemed only formed to gaze on high ! 
For Oh, more piercing bright its beam 
Than diamonds 'neath Golconda's stream; 
That angel-eye was only given 
To look upon its native heaven ! 
The glow upon her cheek was bright, 
But it came, and it fled like a meteor's light; 
A brilliant tear was still lingering there, 
And Oh, it was shed for the Subahdar ! 

O'er ev'ry tear the maiden shed. 
The heart of Amir Khan had bled; 
Now Amir Khan, she weeps for thee, 
Oh ! what must be thy ecstasy ? 
For Amir Khan Amreta weeps. 
Yet Amir Khan unheeding sleeps ! 
Like crystal dew-drops purely glowing, 
O'er his pale brow her tears are flowing ; 



92 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

She wipes them with her veil away, 
Less sacred far — less sweet than they ! 

Where was that eye whose ardent gaze 
Had warmed her bosom with its rays ? 
Where was that glance of love and woe ? 
Where was that proud heart's throbbing glow ? 
All, all was cold and silent there, 
And all was death, and dark despair! 
She hid her face, now cold and pale, 
Within her sweetly scented veil ; 
Then seized her lute, and a strain so clear, 
So soft, so mournful arose on the air, 
That Oh ! it was sweet as the music of heaveji, 
O'er a lost one returning, a sinner forgiven ! 
•Such notes as repentance in sorrow might sing, 
Notes wafted to heaven by Israfil's wing: — 



SONG. 

Star of the morning ! — this bosom was cold, 
When forced from my native shade, 

And I wrapp'd me around in my mantle's fold, 
A mournful Circassian maid ! 

I vowed that rapture should never move 
This changeless cheek, this rayless eye, 

I vowed to feel neither bliss, nor love, — 
In silence to meet thee, and then to die ! 

Each burning sigh thy bosom hath breathed, 
Has been melting that chain away ; 

The galling chain which around me I wreath'd, 
On the morn of that fatal day ! 



POETICAL REMAINS. 93 

Tis done ! and this night I have broken the vow 

Which bound me in silence for ever! 
And thy spirit hath fled from a world of woe, 

To return again, never ! Oh never ! 

My soul is sad ! and my heart is weary ! 

For thy bosom is cold to me ; 
Without thy smile the world is dreary, 

And I will fly with thee! 

Together we '11 float down eternity's stream, 
Twin stars on the breast of the billow. 

The splendours of Paradise round us shall beam. 
And thy bosom shall be my pillow ! 

Then open thine arms bright star of the morning I 

My grave in thy bosom shall be, 
The glories of Paradise 'round us are dawning, 

My Heaven is only with thee ! 



Hushed were the words, and hush'd the song. 
Which sadly, sweetly flow'd along. 
But Amir Khan's warm heart beat high. 
Though closed and rayless was his eye ; 
And every note which struck his ear, 
Whisper'd a hovering angel near; 
And each warm tear that wet his cheek, 
Her long-concealed regard bespeak ; 
His bosom bounded to be free, 
And fluttered, — wild with ecstasy ! 
Oh ! would the magic charm had passed ! 
Would that the morn would break at last ! 
But no — it will not, may not be ! 
He is not, nor can yet be free ! 
8 



94 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

But hark ! Amreta's murmurs rise, 
Sweet as the bird of Paradise; 
She bowed her head, and deeply sighed, 
"Yes, Amir Khan, I am thy Bride! 
And here the crimson hand of death 
Shall wed us with a rosy wreath ! 
My blood shall join us as it flows, 
And bind us in a deep repose !" — 

Beneath her veil a light is beaming, 
A dagger in her hand is gleaming, 
And livid was the light it threw, 
A pale, cold, death-like stream of blue, 
Around her form of angel brightness, 
And o'er her brow of marble whiteness ! 

Awake ! Oh ! Amir Khan, awake ! — 
Canst thou not rouse thee for her sake ? 
Beside thee can Amreta stand, 
The fatal dagger in her hand, 
And canst thou still regardless lie. 
And let thy loved Amreta die? 
Awake ! oh, Amir Khan ! awake. 
And rouse thee for Amreta's sake ! 

— Like lightning from a midnight cloud, 
The Subahdar, from 'neath his shroud. 
Burst the cold, magic, death-like band. 
And snatched the dagger from her hand ! 
The maiden sunk upon his breast, 
And deep, and lengthened was her rest ! 
There was no sigh, no murmur there, 
And scarcely breathed the Subahdar, 
While almost fearing to be blest, 
He clasped Amreta to his breast ! 



POETICAL REMAINS. 95 

Deep buried in his mantle's fold, 
He felt not that her cheek was cold ; 
His own heart throbbed with pleasure's thrill, 
But whispered not that hers was still ! — 
— Yes ! — the wild flow of bhssful joy, 
Which, bursting, threatened to destroy, 
Gave to her soul a rest from feeling; 
A transient torpor gently stealing 
O'er beating pulse, and throbbing breast, 
Had calmed her ev'ry nerve to rest ; 
— But see ! the tide of life returns. 
Once more her cheek with rapture burns, 
Once more her dark eye's heav'nly beam 
Pours forth its full and piercing gleam. 
Once more her heart is bounding high. 
Too full to weep — too blest to sigh ! 



NOTES TO AMIR KHAN. 



I. 

Beneath calm Cashmere's lovely vale, &c, 

" Cashmere, called the happy valley, the garden in perpetual 
spring, and the Paradise of India." 

II. 

The bulbul, with his lay of love, &c. 
« The Bulbul, or Nightingale." 



06 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

/ 

III. 

The gulnare blush'd a deeper hue, &c. 
" Gulnare or Rose." 

IV. 

The lofty plane-tree's haughty brow, &c. 

" The Plane-tree^ that species termed Platanus orientalise ia 
commonly cultivated in Cashmere, where it is said to arrive at 
a greater perfection than in any other country. This tree, 
which in most parts of Asia is called the Chinur, grows to the 
size of an oak, and has a taper, straight trunk, with a silver- 
coloured bark, and its leaf, not unlike an expanded hand, is of a 
pale green. When in full foliage it has a grand and beautiful 
appearance, and in hot weather affords a refreshing shade." — 
Foster. 

V. 

And wide the plantain's arms were spread, &c. 

"Plantain-trees are supposed to prevent the plague from 
visiting places, where they are found in abundance." — Middle- 
ton^s Geography. 

VI. 

Knelt the once haughty Subahdar, &c. 
" Subahdar, or Governor." 

0- VII. 

Since Amir Khan first blessed the hour, &c. 

" To the east of this delightful spot is a fortified palace, erected 
by Amir Khan, a Persian, who was once Governor of Cashmere. 
He used to pass much of his time in this residence, which was 
curiously adapted to every species of Asiatic luxury." — See En- 
cyclopcedia, vol. v., part 2. 

VIII. 

Through the long walks of tzinnar-trees, &c. 

" Their walks are curiously laid out, and set on both sidea 
with tzinnar-trees, a species of poplar unknown in Europe. It 



POETICAL REMAINS. 97 

grows to the height of a pine, and bears a fruit resembling the 
chestnut, and it has broad leaves like those of the vine." — Mid- 
dletorCs Geography. 

IX. 

As it glides o'er the wave of the Wuller's stream, &c. 

" A beautiful river passes through Cashmere, called the 
Ouller, or Wuller. There is an outlet, where it runs with 
greater rapidity and force than elsewhere, between two steep 
mountains, whence proceeding, after a long course, it joins with 
the Chelum. 

X. 

And like a star on Mahmoud's wave, &c. 
"It appears like a lake covered with rocks and mountains. 
Stones, when thrown in, make a surprising noise, and the river 
itself is deemed unfathomable." — MiddletorCs Geography. 

XI. 

Proud Hirney Purvit rears his head, &c. 

" There is an oval lake, which joins the Chelum towards the 
east. — The Yucht Suliman and Hirney Purvit form the two 
sides of what may be called a grand portal to the lake. They 
are hills ; one of which is sacred to the great Solyman. 



8* 



CHICOMICO. 



This Poem I have discovered to be founded on the following 
actual occurrences : During the Seminole war, Duncan M. Rim- 
mon, (the Rathmond of the poem,) a Georgia militiaman, was 
captured by the Indians. Hillis-adjo, their chief, condemned 
him to death. He was bound ; but while the instruments of 
torture were preparing, the tender-hearted daughter of Hillis- 
adjo (the Chicomico of the tale) threw herself between the pris- 
oner and his executioners, and interceded with her father for his 
release. She was successful. His life was spared. In the pro- 
gress of the war, however, it was the fate of the generous Hillis- 
adjo (the prophet Francis) himself to be taken a prisoner of war, 
and it was thought necessary to put him to death. These are 
the facts which Miss D. has wrought up, with other characters, 
(probably fictitious,) to compose the whole of this poem. The 
first part of the poem is so incomplete, that I have thought it 
best to introduce the reader immediately to the second part. 
The war had broken out. Chicomico had solicited the presence 
of Ompahaw, a venerable chief, to aid her father Hillis-adjo 
against the whites, with Rathmond at their head. The battle 
is described, the Indians are victorious, and Rathmond is taken 
prisoner. Here the second part commences. 

Editor. 



CHIGOMICO. 

(Written in her fourteenth year.) 



PART II. 

What sight of horror, fear and woe, 
Now greets chief Hillis-ha-ad-joe ? 
What thought of blood now lights his eye ? 
What victim foe is doomed to die ? 
For his cheek is flushed, and his air is wild, 
And he cares not id look on his only child. 
His lip quivers with rage, his eye flashes fire. 
And his bosom beats high with a tempest of ire. 
Alas ! 't is Rathmond stands a prisoner now, 
Awaiting death from Hillis-ha-ad-joe, 
From Hillis-ha-ad-joe, the stern, the dread, 
To whose vindictive, cruel, savage mind, 
Loss after loss fast following from behind. 
Had only added thirst insatiate for blood ; 
And now he swore by all his heart held dear. 
That limb from limb his victims he would tear. 

But ah ! young Rathmond's case what tongue can tell? 
Upon his hapless fate what heart can dwell? 
To die when manhood dawns in rosy light. 

To be cut oflf in all the bloom of life. 
To view the cup untasted snatched from sight. 

Is sure a thought with horror doubly rife. 

(100) 



POETICAL REMAINS. 101 

Alas, poor youth ! how sad, how faint thy heart ! 

When memory paints the forms endeared by love ; 
From these so soon, so horribly to part ; 

Oh ! it would almost savage bosoms move 1 
But unextinguished Hope still lit his breast, 
And aimless- still, drew scenes of future rest ! 
Caught at each distant light which dimly gleamed, 
Though sinking 'mid th' abyss o'er which it beamed ! 
Like the poor mariner, who, tossed around, 
Strains his dim eye to ocean's farthest bound, 
Paints, in each snowy wave, assistance near, 
And as it rolls away, gives up to fear: 
Dreads to look round, for death 's on every side, 
The low'ring clouds above the ocean wide : 
He wails alone — "and scarce forbears to weep,"* 
That his wreck'd bark still lingers on the deep ! 

E'en to the child of penury and woe, 

Who knows no friend that o'er his grave will weep, 
Whose tears in childhood's hour were taught to flow, 

Looks with dismay across death's horrid deep ! 
Then, when suspended o'er that awful brink, 

Snatch'd from each joy, which opening life may give. 
Who would not from the prospect shuddering shrink. 

And murmur out one hope-fraught prayer to live!" 
But, see ! the captive is now dragged along. 
While round him mingle yell and wild war-song 1 
The ring is formed around the high-raised pile, 
Fagot o'er fagots reared with savage toil ; 
Th' impatient warriors watch with burning brands, 
To toss the death-signs from their ruthless hands ! 
Nearer, and nearer still the wretch is drawn, 
All hope of life, of rescue, now is gone ! 
A horrid death is placed before his eyes ; 
In fancy now he sees the flames arise, 

* Campbell. 



102 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

He hears the deaf'ning yell which drowns the cry 

Of the poor victim's last, dire agony ! 

His heart was sick, he strove in vain to pray • 

To that great God, before whose awful bar 
His lighten'd soul was soon to wing its way 

From this sad world to other realms afar ! 

He raised his eyes to Heaven's blue arch above, 
That pure retreat of mercy and of love ; 
When, lo ! two fellow-sufferers caught his eye, 
The prophet Montonoc is doomed to die ! 
His haughty spirit now must be brought low, 
Long had he been the chieftain's direst foe : 
The Indian's face was wrapped in mystic gloom, 
As on they led him to his horrid doom. 
A hectic flush upon his dark cheek burned, 
His eye nor to the right nor left hand turned : 
His lip nor quivered, nor turned pale with fear, 
Though the death-note already met his ear. 
Tall and majestic was his noble mien. 

Erect, he seemed to brave the foeman's ire. 
His step was bold, his features all serene. 

As he approached the steep funereal pyre ! 

Close at his side, a figure glided slow, 
Clad in the dark habiliments of woe, 
Whose form was shrouded in a mantle's fold, 
AH, save one treacherous ringlet, — bright as gold. 

The death-song's louder note shrill peals on high, 
A signal that the victim soon must die ! 
While yell and war-note join the chorus still, 
Till the wild dirge rebounds from hill to hill ! 
Rathmond now turned to snatch a last sad gaze, 
Ere closed life's curtain o'er his youthful days ; 
When he beheld the dark, the piercing eye 
Of Montonoc, the prophet doomed to die, 



POETICAL REMAINS. 103 

Bent upon him with such a steady gaze, 

That not niore fixed was death's own horrid glaze ! 

Then lifting his long swarthy finger high, 

To where the sun's bright beams just tinged the sky, 

And o'er the parting day its glories spread. 

Which was to close when their sad souls had fled, — 

" White man," he cried, in low mysterious tone, 

Caught but by Rathmond's listening ear alone, 

" Ere the bright eye of yon red orb shall sleep. 

This haughty chief his fallen tribe shall weep !" 

He said no more, for lo ! the death-yells cease. 

'T is hushed ! no sound is echoed through the place ! 

The opening ring disclosed a female there. 

In a rich mantle shrouded, save her hair. 

Which long and dark, luxuriant round her hung, 

With many a clear, white pearl and dew-drop strung ! 

She threw back the mantle which shaded her face, 
She spoke not, but looked the pale spirit of woe ! 

The angel of mercy ! the herald of grace ! 
Knelt the sorrowful daughter of Hillis-ad-joe! 

" My father ! my father !" the maiden exclaims, 

" Oh doom not the white man to die midst the flames ! 

'T is thy daughter who kneels ! 't is Chicomico sues ! 

Can my father, the friend of my childhood, refuse? 

This heart is the white man's ! with him will I die ! 

With him, to the Great Spirit's mansion I '11 fly ! 

The flames which to heaven will waft his pure soul. 

Round the form of thij daughter encircling shall roll ! 

My life is his life — his fate shall be mine ; 

For his image around thy child's heart will entwine !" 

Man's breast may be cruel, and savage, and stern ; 
From the sufl^erings of others it heedless may turn ; 
To the pleadings of want, to the wan face of woe, 
To the sorrow-wrung drops which around it may flow, 



104 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

But 't will melt like the snow on the Apennine's breast, 
As the sunbeam falls light, on its fancy-crowned crest. 
When the voice of a child to its cold ear is given, 
Fill'd with sorrow's sad notes like the music of Heaven. 

" Loose the white man," the king in an agony cried, 

" My child, what you plead for, can ne'er be denied ! 

The pris'ner is yours ! to enslave or to free 1 

I yield him, Chicomico, wholly to thee; 

But remember !" he cried, while pride conquered his 

woe, 
" Remember, thy father is Hillis-ad-joe !" 
He frowned, and his brow, like the curtains of night, 
Looked darker, when tinged by a moon-beam of light; 
Chicomico saw — she saw, and with dread. 
The storm, which returning, might burst o'er her head; 
And quickly to Rathmond she turned with a sigh, 
While a love-brightened tear veiled her heavenly eye. 

" Go, white man, go ! without a fear ; 
Remember you to one are dear ; 
Go ! and may peace your steps attend ; 
Chicomico will be your friend. 
To-morrow eve, with us may close 
Joyful, and free from cares or woes : 
To-morrow eve may also end, 
And find me here without a friend ! 
Remember then the Indian maid. 
Whose voice the burning brand hath stayed ! 
But should I be, as now I am, 

And thou in prison and in woe, 
Think that this heart is still the same, 

And turn thee to Chicomico ! 
Then, go ! yes, go ! while yet you nniay, 
Dread death awaits you, if you stay ! 
May the Great Spirit guard and guide 
Your footsteps through the forest wide 1" 

9 * 



POETICAL REMAINS. 105 

She said, and wrapped the mantle near 
Her fragile form, with hasty hand, 

Just bowed her head, and shed one tear. 
Then sped him to his native land. 

The wind is swift, and mountain hart. 
From huntsman's bow, the feathered dart ; 
But swifter far the pris'ner's flight. 
When freed from dungeon-chains and night ! 
So Rathmond felt, but wished to show 
How much he owed Chicomico ; 
But she had fled ; she did not hear ! 
She did not mark the grateful tear 
Which quivered in the hero's eye ; 
Nor did she catch the half-breathed sigh ; 
And Heaven alone could hear the prayer. 
Which Rathmond's full heart profiered there. 



PART III. 

While swift on his way young Rathmond sped, 
Death's horrors awaited those he fled. 
Already were the prisoners bound. 

One word, and every torch would fly ; 
No step was heard, nor feeblest sound. 

Save the death-raven's wing on high ! 
The sign was given, each blazing brand 
Like lightning, shot from every hand ; 
The crackhng, sparkling fagots blazed, — 
Then Montonoc his dark eye raised ; 
He whistled shrill — an arfswering call 
Told that each foeman then should fall! 
Sudden a band of warriors flew 
From earth, as if from earth they grew. 
9 



106 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

The brake, the fern, and hazel-down, 
Blazed brightly in the sinking sun ; 
Confusion, blood, and carnage then 
Spread their broad pinions o'er the glen ; 
The blazing brands were quenched in blood, 
And Montonoc unshackled stood ! 
He paused one moment — dark he frowned, 
By dire rev^enge and slaughter crowned ; 
Then bent his bow, let loose the dart, 
And pierced the foeman Chieftain's heart 
Yes, Montonoc, thy arrow sped. 
For HilHs-ha-ad-joe is dead ! 

And now within their hidden tent, 
The conquered make their sad lament ; 
Before them lay their slaughtered king, 
While slowly round they form the ring ; 
Dread e'en in death, the Chieftain's form 
Seemed made to stride the whirlwind storm; 
Upon his brow a dreadful frown 
Still hngered as the warrior's crown ; 
And yet it seemed as mortal ire 
Still sparkled in that eye of fire. 
And blazing, soon should light the face 
O'er which death's shadow held its place, 
And like the lightning 'neath a cloud. 
Shoot, flaming from its sable shroud. 
But, hark ! low notes of sorrow break 
The solemn calm, and o'er the lake. 
Float on the bosom of the gale; 
Hark ! 't is the Chieftain's funeral wail ! 

Fallen, fallen, fallen low 
Lies great Hillis-ha-ad-joe ! 
To the land of the dead. 
By the white man sped ! 



POETICAL REMAINS. 107 

In his hunting garb they shall welcome him there, 
To the land of the bow, and the antlered deer ! 

Fallen is Hillis-ha-ad-joe ! 

Chaunt his death-dirge sad and slow; 

In the battle he fell, in the fight he died, 

And many a brave warrior sunk by his side. 
In his hunting garb they shall welcome him there, 
To the land of the bow, and the antlered deer. 

The sun is sinking in the deep, 

Our " mighty fallen one" we weep ; 

Fallen is HilHs-ha-ad-joe ! 

The axe has laid our broad oak low ! 
In his hunting garb they shall welcome him there, 
To the land of the bow^and the antlered deer. 

The last sad note had sunk on the breeze. 

Which mournfully sighed among the dark trees. 

When a form thickly shrouded, swift glided along, 

But joined not her voice to the funeral song. 

When the notes cease, she knelt, and in accents of woe. 

Besought the Great Spirit for Hillis-ad-joe. 

Her words were but few, and her manner was wild, 

For she was the slaughtered Chief's poor orphan 

child ! 
She raised her dark eye to the sun sinking red, 
She looked, and that glance told that reason had fled! 

Why does thy eye roll wild, Chicomico? 
Why dost thou shake like aspen's quivering bough? 
Why o'er that fine brow streams thy raven hair? 
Read ! for the " wreck of reason 's written there !" 
'T is true ! the storm was high, the surges wild, 
And reason fled the Chieftain's orphan child ! 
Thou poor heart-broken wretch on life's wild sea, 
Say ! who is left to love, to comfort thee? 



108 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

All, all are gone, and thou art left alone, 
Like the last rose, by autumn rudely blown. 

But she has fled, the wild and winged wind 
Is by her left, long loitering far behind ! 
But whither has she fled ? to wild-wood glen, 
Far from the cares, the joys, the haunts of men ! 
Her bed the rock, her drink the rippling stream, 
And murdered friends her ever constant dream ! 
Her wild death-song is wafted on the gale. 
Which echoes round the Chieftain's funeral wail ! 
Her little skiff" she paddles o'er the lake, 
And bids " the Daughter of the Voice," awake ! 
From hill to hill the shrieking echoes run, 
To greet the rising and the setting sun. 



PART IV. 

The lake is calm, the sun is low. 
The whippoorwill is chaunting slow, 
And scarce a leaf through the forest is seen 
To wave in the breeze its rich mantle of green. 
Fit emblem of a guiltless mind. 

The glassy waters calmly lie; 
Unruffled by a breath of wind. 

Which o'er its shining breast may sigh ! 
The shadow of the forest there 

Upon its bosom soft may rest ; 
The eagle-heights, which tower in air, 

May cast their dark shades o'er its breast. 

f But hark ! approaching paddles break 
The stillness of that azure lake ! 
Swift o'er its surface glides the bark, 
Like lightning's flash, like meteor spark. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 109 

It seemed, as on the light skiff flew, 
As it scarce kissed the wave's deep blue, 
Which, dimpling round the vessel's side, 
Sparkled and whirled in eddies wide ! 

Who guides it through the yielding lake ? 
Who dares its magic calm to break ? 
'Tis Montonoc ! his piercing eye 

Is raised to where the western hill 
Rears its broad forehead to the sky, 

Battling the whirlwind's fury still. 

'Twas Montonoc, and with him there 
Was that strange form, with golden hair ! 
Wrapped in the self-same garb, as when 
Surrounded by those savage men. 
The stranger had, with Montonoc, 
Been led before the blazing stake ! 
Swift, swift, the light skiff forward flew, 
Till it had crossed the waters blue ; 
Both leaped like lightning to the land, 
And left the skiff upon the strand ; 
Far mid the forest then they fled, 
And mingled with its dark brown shade. 

The oak's broad arms in the breeze were creaking, 
The bird of the gloomy brovi^ was shrieking, 
When a note on the night-wind was wafted along, 
A note of the dead chieftain's funeral song. 
A form was seen wandering in frantic woe, 
'T was the maniac daughter of Hillis-ad-joe ! 
Her dark hair was borne on the night-wind afar. 
And she sung the wild dirge of the Blood-hound of 

War! 

9* 



110 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

She ceased when she came near the breeze-ruffled 

lake ; 
She ceased — was't the wind sighing o'er the long 

brake ? 
Wast't the soft rippling wave? — was't the murmur 

of trees? 
Which bending, were brushed by the wing of the 

breeze ? 
Ah, no ! for she shrieked, as her piercing eye caught 
A form which her frenzied brain never forgot I — 
'T was Rathmond ! yes, Rathmond before her now 

stood. 
And he glanced his full eye on the child of the wood. 

" Chicomico !" he cried, his voice sad and low, 

" Chicomico !" we are the children of woe ! 

Oh, come, then ! oh, come ! and thy Rathmond's 

strong arm 
Shall shelter thee ever from danger and harm ; 
'T is true, I have loved with the passion of youth ! 
I have loved ; and let Heaven attest with what truth! 
But, Cordelia, thy ashes are mixed with the dead — " 
(Here his eye flashed more fierce, and his pale cheek 

turned red) 
"'Twas thy father, Chicomico — yes, 'twas thy sive, 
Who kindled the loved saint's funereal pyre ! 
But, 't is passed" — (and he crossed his cold, quivering 

hand 
O'er a brow that was burning like Zahara's sand,) 
" 'T is pass'd ! — and Chicomico, thou didst preserve 
'The life of a wretch, who now never can love ! 
That life is thy own, with a heart, that though chilled 
To passion's soft throb, is with gratitude filled !" 

tP TV TJ* "fp ^ ^ Vp vC* 

She turned her dark eye, from which reason's bright fire 
Had fled, with the ghosts of her friends — of her sire ; 



POETICAL REMAINS. m 

" Young Eagle !" she cried, " when my father was 

slain, 
What white man, who ravaged along that dread plain, 
Withheld the dire blow, and plead for the life 
Of Hillis-ad-joe ? — and say, who in that strife. 
Stayed the arm that bereft me, and left me alone ? 
Yes, Young Eagle ! my father, my brothers are gone! 
Wouldst thou ask me to linger behind them, while they 
To yon Heaven in the west are wending their way ! 
And, hark ! the Great Spirit, whose voice sounds on 

high. 
Bids me come ! and see, white man, how gladly I 

fly !" 
More swift than the deer, when the hounds are in 

view. 
To the bark that was stranded, Chicomico flew ! 
She dashed the light oar in the waves' foaming spray 
And thus wildly she sung, as she darted away : 

"I go to the -land in the west. 

The Great Spirit calls me away ! 
To the land of the just and the blest. 

The Great Spirit points me the way! 

"Like snow on the mountain's crest, 
Like foam on the fountam's breast, 

Hillis-ad-joe and his kinsmen have passed ! 
Like the sun's setting ray in the west, 

When it sinks on the wave to rest, 

The dead chieftain's daughter is coming at last I 

" Too long has she lingered behind, 
Awaiting the Great Spirit's voice ! 

But hark ! it calls loud in the wind, 
And Chic6mico now will rejoice! 

" I go to the land in the west : 
The Great Spirit calls me away ! 



112 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

To the land of the just and the blest, 
The Great Spirit points me the way !" 

The wild notes sunk upon the gale, 
And echo caught them not again ! 

For the breeze which bore the maiden's wail, 
Wafted afar the last sad strain ! 

'T was said, that shrieking 'mid the storm. 
The maiden oft was seen to gHde, 

And oft the hunters mark'd her form. 
As swift she darted through the tide. 



o 



And once along the calm lake shore, 
Her hght canoe was she seen to guide. 

But the maid and her bark are seen no more 
To float along the rippling tide. 

For the billows foamed, and the winds did roar, 
And her lamp, as it glimmered amid the storm, 

A moment blazed bright, and was seen no more, 
For it sunk 'mid the waves with her maniac form ! 

THE FAREWELL. 

Adieu, Chicomico, adieu; 

Soft may'st thou sleep amid the wave, 
And 'neath thy canopy of blue 

May sea-maids deck thy coral grave. 

'Twas but a feeble voice which sung 
Thy hapless tale of youthful woe ; 

But ah ! that weak, that infant tongue 
Will ne'er another story know. 

And tho' the rough and foaming surge. 
And the wild whirlwind whistling o'er. 

Should rudely chaunt thy funeral dirge, 
And send the notes from shore to shore ; 



POETICAL REMAINS. 113 

Still shall one voice be heard, above 
The dreadful " music of the spheres !" 

The voice of one whose song is love, 
Ennbalm'd by sorrow's saddest tears, 

PART V. 

The fourth day found the dark tribe brooding o*er 

Their chieftain's body, chieftain now no more ! 

As fire half-quench'd, some faint spark lives, 

Glimmers, half dies, and then revives, 

Revives to kindle far and wide, 

And spread with devastating stride ; 

So glimmered, so revived, so spread 

The mourners' rage around the dead ! 

Their quivers o'er their shoulders flung, 

Up rose the aged and the young ; 

And swore, as tenants of the wood. 

By all their hearts held dear or good, 

That, ere another sun should rise. 

Their slaughtered foes should glut their eyes. 

They swore revenge and bloodshed too, 

As their slain chieftain's rightful due, 

They swore that blood should freely flow 

For their poor, lost Chicomico ! 

'T was evening : all was fair- and still ; 
The orb of night now sparkling on the rill ; 
Now glittering o'er the fern, and water-brake, 
Cast its broad eye-beam o'er the lake ! 
Far through the forest, where no footpath lay, 
Old Montonoc pursued his onward way; 
The fair-haired stranger hung upon his arm, 
Shook at each noise, and trembled with alarm ; 
" Well do I know the woodland way, 
For I have tracked it many a day, 



114 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

When mountain bear or wilder deer 
Have called me to this forest drear. 
Fear'st thou with Montonoc to stray, 
Why wand'rest thou so far away, 
From friends, from safety, and from home, 
To war, and weariness, and gloom ? 
Thou must not hope, as yet, to bear 
Free from disguise that form so dear; 
It must not, and it will not be. 
Till, buried in the dark Monee, 
The last of yonder tribe of blood. 
Lies weltering in the sable flood ! 
But rest thee on this fresh green seat, 
And I will trace his wandering feet ; 
Warn him to watch the lurking foe, 
Whose bloody breasts for vengeance glow ; 
Then rest thee here ; within yon dell 
I saw his form, and knew him well I" 

Thus spoke the prophet of the wood, 
As near the stranger maid he stood. 

" Then go," she cried, half-faltering, " go 1 

Bid him beware the bloody foe ! 

But give me, ere we part," she cried, 

*' Yon blood-stained death-blade from your side ; 

Perhaps this arm, though weak, may find 

Strength, in the hour of deep distress ; 
Go ! my preserver, and my friend. 

May heaven thy steps and efforts bless !" 

Cautious and swift the Indian went ; 
His head was raised, his bow was bent, 
And as he on, like wild-deer, sped. 
So light, so silent, was his tread. 
That scarce a leaf was heard to move, 
Of flower below, or branch above ! 



POETICAL REMAINS. 115 

Where Rathmond, with a heart of woe, 

Had gazed on lost Chicomico, 

There, on that spot, the prophet's eye 

Mark'd the young warrior's farewell sigh. 

" Why lingerest thou here, Young Eagle," he cried, 

" The foe 'neath the fern, and the dark hazel hide ! 

Blood, blood ! be our war-cry, for vengeance is theirs ! 

Their arrows are winged by despair and by fears ! 

When the last of the tribe of Hillis-ad-joe, 

Hath plunged him beneath the deep waters below, 

Thy heart shall possess all it wishes for here, 

Unchilled by a sigh, unbedewed by a tear ! 

But till then, cold and vacant thy bosom shall be, 

And the idol to which thou hast bended thy knee, 

Shall mark thee, and love thee, in peril and woe, 

Yet till then that dear being thou never shalt know!' 

" What meanest thou, prophet of the eagle-eye, 
By thy mysterious prophecy? ' 
Well knowest thou that yon bloody chief 
Doomed her to death, and me to grief! 
That round that form, the wild flames rolled 
And wafted far her angel soul ! 
Why didst thou not arrest the brand ? 
For, prophet, fate was in thy hand." 

" 'T is well," the Indian calmly said, 
" 'T is well," and bowed to earth his head ; 
" But," he exclaimed, with eye less grave, 
" I left a skiff on yonder wave — 
Say, dark-eyed Eagle, dost thou know 
Aught of the dire, blood-thirsty foe ?" 

" No, Montonoc ! no foe was she. 
Who plunged adown the swift Monee. 
Chicomico is cold and damp ! 
The wave her couch— the moon her lamp; 



116 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

But mark ! adown the foaming stream / 

The barks beneath the moon's pale beam I 
What bode they'? or of weal, or woe? 
Do they betoken friend or foe? 
Perchance to rouse the wildwood deer 
The Indian hunters landed there." 

Back they retraced their steps, till from the hill 
A female shriek rang loud, distinct, and shrill ! 
Both start, both stop, and Montonoc's dark eye 
Flashed like a meteor of the northern sky. — 
But hark ! what cry of savage joy is there. 
Borne through the forest on the midnight air ? 

It is the foe ! — the band of blood-hounds came, 

Who erst had lit the Chieftain's funeral flame ! 

Revenge and death around their arrows gleam, 

And murder shudders 'neath the moon's pale beam ! 

The fiercest warrior of their tribe, their chief, 

Sage in the council, bloody in the strife. 

High towered dark Wompaw's snowy plume in air, 

Waved on the breeze, and shone a beacon there ! 

Old Ompahaw, with brow of fire. 

And bosom burning high with ire 

And sparkling eye, and burning brand. 

Which gleamed athwart both lake and strand, 

Still echoed back the lengthened yell 

Which startled wildwood, rock, and dell ! 

And more were there, so dread, so wild. 

Nature might shudder at her child. 

And curse the hand that e'er had made 

So dark a stain, so deep a shade ! 

On, on they flew, with lengthened stride 
But, ah ! the victims, where are they? — 

Naught but the lake lies open wide, 
And the broad bosom of the bay .' 



POETICAL REMAINS. 117 

But, ah ! *t is well ;— that shrill shriek toIM 
The death-knell of their chief once more ! 

Yes, Rathmond, yes, the deed was bold, 

That stretched yon white plume on the shore ! 

Safe crouch'd 'neath fern-bush, dark and low, 

Rathmond had truly bent his bow, 

And Montonoc, with steady eye, 

From 'mid the oak's arms broad and high, 

Took aim as sure ; his arrows sped, 

And many a bloody foe is dead ! 

Wide tumult spreads ! — afar they fly, 

Each rustling brake, which meets the eye, 

Seems shrouding still some warrior there, 

With bloody brand and eye of fire. 

Slow dropping from his safe retreat, 

The prophet glides to Rathmond's seat ; 

Then raised loud yells of various tone. 

Such as are given at victory won. 

And Rathmond joined, till long and high, ' 

Rang the loud chorus to the sky ! 

Hark ! o'er the rocks, the shrieks are answered wild 

Can It be Echo, Nature's darling child ? 

No— -'tis a whoop of horror and despair, 

Which knows no sympathy, which sheds no tear ! 

Lo ! on yon cliff, which frowns above the wave, 
Mark the stern warriors hovering o'er their grave ! 
'T is done : the sullen bosom of the bay 
Opens and closes o'er its sinking prey ! 

One hollow splashing, as the waters part. 
Sad welcome of the victim to his bed, 
One mournful, shuddering echo, and the heart 

Turns, chilled, at length, from scenes of death and 
dread ! 
10 



118 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

But ah ! like some sad spectre lingering near, 
A form still hovers o'er the scene of woe; — 

Does it await its hour of vengeance here, 
Watching the cold forms weltering below ? 

The morn was dawning slowly in the east, 

A few faint gleams of light were bursting through, 

When the dread warriors sought the lake's calm 
breast. 
And sullen sunk amid its waters blue ! 

That rude, wild phantom hovering there. 
Poised on the precipice mid-way in air, 
Like some stern spirit of the dead. 
Rising indignant from its bed. 
Was Ompahaw ! alone, he stood. 
Gazing on Heaven, on hill, and wood ! 
His eye was wilder than the eagle's glare ; 
Its glance was triumph, mingled with despair ! 
Far floated on the breeze his plumes of red. 
Waving in warlike pride around his head ; 
His bow was aimless, bent within his hand ; 
His scalping-knife was gleaming in its band ; 
And his gay dress, bedecked for battle's storm, 
Was wildly fluttering round his warrior-form ! 

" Farewell !" he cried, " this aged hand 

Draws the last bow-string of our band!" 

He spoke, and, sudden as the lightning's glance, 

The dart, one moment, o'er the waters danced ; 

Like comet's blaze, like shooting star. 

It whirled across the waters far ! 

The dark lake sparkled, as the arrow fell, 

Foaming, death's herald, a last, bright farewell ! 

Then from his belt his tomahawk he tore, 

" Man shall ne'er stain thy blade again with gore I* 



POETICAL REMAINS. 119 

Then raised on high his arm, and wildly sung 
The death-song of his tribe, till nature rung ! 

THE DEATH-SONG. 

" The last of the tribe of Hillis-ad-joe 

Falls not by the hand of the bloody foe 
But they fled to the Heaven of peace in the west, 
The Great Spirit called, and they flew to be blessed ! 

" From the dark rock's frowning brow 

They flew to the deep below ; 
They feared not, for the Heaven of peace in the west 
Was smiling them welcome, sweet welcome to rest ! 

" The last of the tribe of Hillis-ad-joe 

Now plunges him 'mid the deep waters below ! 
I come. Great Spirit, take me to thy rest ! 
Lo ! my freed soul is winged towards the west !'* 

'T is past ! the rude, wild sons of Nature sleep, 
Calm, undisturbed, amid the waters deep ! 
'Tis past ! — the deed is done, the tribe has gone I 
Not one is left to mourn it, no, not one ! 

• 
The last of all that tribe of blood 
Lies weltering in the sable flood ! 
Oh ! where is yonder fair-haired maid ? i 

Say, whither hath the lone one strayed ? ' 

'Mid the wild tumult of the strife, 
Where fled she from the scalping-knife ? 
Angels around her spread their arm. 
And shrouded her from fear and harm ! 
But oh ! what shriek rang shrill and clear, 
And echoed still in Rathmond's ear ? 
Why should he note that voice, that scream 1 
Was it his fancy, or a dream? 



120 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Or was it — hope illumed his eye, 
And pointed to the prophecy ! 

" But no ! — 't were madness to return 
To those bright scenes of joy," he cried, 

" Her bones are whitening in the sun, 
Her ashes scattered far and wide !" 

But where is Montonoc? alone, 

Rathmond is musing on the strand ; 
Say, whither has the prophet gone ? 

Why does young Rathmond heedless stand ? 

Oh ! he is picturing to his vacant breast 
Those scenes of joy, those moments doubly blessed. 
Which youthful hope had promised should be his. 
When all was light, and love, and cloudless bhss ! 
Oh ! he was sighing o'er the dreary waste. 

Left in that bosom, which had loved so well ! 
Oh ! he was wishing for some place of rest, 

Some gloomy cavern, or some lonely cell ! 

But, ah ! the voice of Montonoc is heard. 
Loud as the notes of yonder gloomy bird 
" Eagle !" he cried, " the fatal charm hath passed ! 
The blood-red tribe have darkly sunk at last ! 
And, warrior, now I yield unto thy power 
The latest trophy of my life's last hour ! 
Deal with him as thou wilt, for he is thine ! 
But mark ! 'twas I who gave, for he was mine ! 
Adieu ! I go !" — He closed his fiery eye. 
And his stern spirit flew to heaven on high ! 

The prisoner sighed, and mutely gazed awhile 

Upon the fallen prophet's brow of toil. 

Then towards the warrior turned, dropped the dark 

hood, 
And, lo ! Cordelia before Rathmond stood ! 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



10* 



(121) 



■ / 



MISCELLANJiOUS PIECES. 



I 



CHARITY. 

A VERSIFICATION OF PART OF THE THIRTEENTH 
CHAPTER OF FIRST CORINTHIANS. 

(Written in her twelfth year,) 

Though I were gifted with an angel's tongue, 
And voice like that with which the prophets sung, 
Yet if mild charity were not within, 
'T were all an impious mockery and sin. 

Though I the gift of prophecy possessed, 
And faith like that which Abraham professed. 
They all were like a tinkling cymbal's sound, 
If meek-eyed charity did not abound. 

Though I to feed the poor my goods bestow. 
And to the flames my body I should throw. 
Yet the vain act would never cover sin. 
If heaven-born charity were not within. 



TO SCIENCE. 

(Written in her thirteenth year.) 

Let others in false Pleasure's court be found. 
But may I ne'er be whirled the giddy round ; 
Let me ascend with Genius' rapid flight, 
Till the fair hill of Science meets my sight. 



124 



LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



Blest with a pilot who my feet will guide, 
Direct my way, whene'er I step aside ; 
May one bright ray of Science on me shine, 
And be the gift of learning ever mine. 



PLEASURE. 

(Written in her thirteenth year.) 

Away ! unstable, fleeting Pleasure, 
Thou troublesome and gilded treasure ; 
When the false jewel cTianges hue, 
There 's naught, O man, that 's left for you ! 
What many grasp at with such joy, 
Is but her shade, a foolish toy; 
She is not found at every court, 
At every ball, and every sport, 
But in that heart she loves to rest, 
That's wuth a guiltless conscience blest. 



THE GOOD SHEPHERD. 

(Written in her thirteenth j-ear.) 

The Shepherd feeds his fleecy flock with care, 

And mourns to find one little lamb has strayed; 
He, unfatigued, roams through the midnight air. 

O'er hills, o'er rocks, and through the mossy glade. 

« 

But when that lamb is found, what joy is seen 
Depicted on the careful shepherd's face, 

When, sporting o'er the smooth and level green, 
He sees his fav'rite charge is in its place. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 12f| 

Thus the great Shepherd of his flock doth mourn, 
When from his fold a wayward lamb has strayed. 

And thus with mercy he receives him home, 
When the poor soul his Lord has disobeyed. 

There is great joy among the saints in heaven, 
When one repentant soul has found its God, 

For Christ, his Shepherd, hath his ransom given. 
And sealed it with his own redeeming blood ! 



LINES, 

WRITTEN UNDER THE PROMISE OF REWARD, 
(Written in her thirteenth year.) 

Whene'er the muse pleases to grace my dull page, 
At the sight of revmrd^ she flies off* in a rage ; 
Prayers, threats, and entreaties I frequently try. 
But she leaves me to scribble, to fret, and to sigh. 

She torments me each moment, and bids me go write, 
And when I obey her, she laughs at the sight ; 
The rhyme will not jingle, the verse has no sense, 
And against all her insults I have no defence. 

I advise all my friends, who wish me to write, 
To keep their rewards and their praises from sight ; 
So that jealous Miss Muse won't be wounded in pride, 
Nor Pegasus rear, till I 've taken my ride. 



126 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

TO THE 

MEMORY OF HENRY KIRK WHITE. 

(Written in her thirteenth year.) 

In yon lone valley where the cypress spreads 
Its gloomy, dark, impenetrable shades, 
The mourning JV?'we, o'er White's untimely grave 
Murmur their sighs, like Neptune's troubled wave. 

There sits Consumption, sickly, pale, and thin, 
Her joy evincing by a ghastly grin ; 
There his deserted garlands with'ring lie. 
Like him they droop, like him untimely die. 



i 



STILLING THE WAVES. 

(Written in her thirteenth year.) 

" And he arose and rebuked the wind, and said unto the sea 
•Peace, be still!'" 

Be still, ye waves, for Christ doth deign to tread 
On the rough bosom of your watery bed ! 
Be not too harsh your gracious Lord to greet. 
But, in soft murmurs, kiss his holy feet; 
'Tis He alone can calm your rage at will. 
This is His sacred mandate, " Peace, be still !'* 



POETICAL REMAINS. 127 

A SONG. 

(iJf IMITATION OF THE SCOTCH.) 

(Written in her thirteenth year.) 

Wha is it that caemeth sae blithe and sae swift, 

His bonnet is far frae his flaxen hair lift, 

His dark een rolls gladsome, i' the breeze floats his 

plaid. 
And surely he bringeth nae news that is sad. 
Ah ! say, bonny stranger, whence caemest thou now? 
The tiny drop trickles frae off" thy dark brow. 

** I come," said the stranger, " to spier my lued hame, 
And to see if my Marion still were the same ; 
I hae been to the battle, where thousands hae bled, 
And chieftains fu' proud are wi' mean peasants laid; 
I hae fought for my country, for freedom, and fame, 
And now Pm returning wi' speed to my hame." 

" Gude Spirit of Light !" ('t was a voice caught his 

" And is it me ain Norman's accents I hear ? 

And has the fierce Southron then left me my child I 

Or am I wi' sair, sair anxiety wild ?" 

He turned to behold — 'tis his mother he sees ! 

He flies to embrace her — he falls on his knees. 

" Oh ! where is my father?" a tear trickled down, 
' And silently moisten'd the warrior's cheek brown: 

" Ah 1 sure my heart sinks, sae sair, in my breast, 
^ Too sure he frae all the world's trouble doth rest !" 
': " But where is my Marion ?" his pale cheek turned 
red. 

And the glistening tear in his eye was soon dried. 



128 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

" She lives !" and he knew 't was his Marion's sweet 

tone, 
" She lives," exclaims Marion, '* for Norman alone !" 
He saw her : the rose had fled far from her cheek. 
But Norman still lives ! his Marion is found ; 
By the adamant chains of bhthe Hymen they're 

bound. 



EXIT FROM EGYPTIAN BONDAGE. 

(Written in her thirteenth year.) 

When Israel's sons, from cruel bondage freed, 
Fled to the land by righteous Heaven decreed ; 
Insulting Pharaoh quick pursued their train. 
E'en to the borders of the troubled main. 

Affrighted Israel stood alone dismayed. 
The foe behind, the sea before them laid ; 
Around, the hosts of bloody Pharaoh fold. 
And wave o'er wave the raging Red Sea rolled. 

But God, who saves his chosen ones from harm, 
Stretched to their aid his all-protecting arm, 
And lo ! on either side the sea divides. 
And Israel's army in its bosom hides. 

Safe to the shore through watery walls they march^ 
And once more hail kind Heaven's aerial arch ; 
Far, far behind, the cruel foe is seen. 
And the dark waters roll their march between. 

The God of vengeance stretched his arm again. 
And heaving, back recoiled the foaming main ; 
And impious Pharaoh 'neath the raging wave, 
With all his army, finds a watery grave. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 129 

Rejoice, O Israel ! God is on your side, 
He is your champion, and your faithful guide ; 
By day, a cloud is to your footsteps given, 
By night, a fiery column towers to heaven. 

Then Israel's children marched by day and night. 
Till Sinai's mountain rose upon their sight : 
There righteous Heaven the flying army staid, 
And Israel's sons the high command obeyed. 

To Sinai's mount the trembling people came, 

'T was wrapped in threat'ning clouds, in smoke, and 

flame ; 
A silent awe pervaded all the van ; 
Not e'en a murmur through the army ran. 
High Sinai shook ! dread thunders rent the air! 
And horrid lightnings round its summit glare ! 
'Twas God's paviUon, and the black'ning clouds, 
Dark hov'ring o'er, his dazzling glory shrouds. 

To Heaven's dread court the intrepid leader came, 
T' receive its mandate in the people's name ; 
Loud trumpets peal — the awful thunders roll, 
Transfixing terrors in each guilty soul. 

But lo ! he comes, arrayed in shining light. 

And round his forehead plays a halo bright ; 

Heaven's high commands with trembling were re- 
ceived, 

Heaven's high commands were heard, and were be- 
lieved. 



THE LAST FLOWER OF THE GARDEN. 

(Written in her thirteenth year.) 

The last flower of the garden was blooming alone, 
The last rays of the sun on its blushing leaves shone; 
11 



130 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Still a glittering drop on its bosom reclined, 
And a few half-blown buds 'midst its leaves were en- 
twined. 

Say, lonely one, say, why ling'rest thou 'here ? 
And why on thy bosom reclines the bright tear? 
'T is the tear of a zephyr — for summer 't was shed, 
And for all thy companions now withered and dead. 

Why ling'rest thou here, when around thee are strown 
The flowers once so lovely, by Autumn blast blown ? 
Say, why, sweetest flow'ret, the last of thy race. 
Why ling'rest thou here the lone garden to grace ? 

As I spoke, a rough blast, sent by Winter's own hand, 
Whistled by me, and bent its sweet head to the sand ; 
I hastened to raise it — the dew-drop had fled. 
And the once lovely flower was withered and dead. 



ODE TO FANCY. 

(Written in her thirteenth year.) 

Fancy, sweet and truant sprite. 
Steals on wings, as feathers light. 
Draws a veil o'er Reason's eye. 
And bids the guardian senses fly. 

Soft she whispers to the mind, 
Come, and trouble leave behind : 
She banishes the fiend Despair, 
And shuts the eyes of waking Care. 

Then, o'er precipices dark. 
Where never reached the wing of lark, 
Fearing no harm, she dauntless flies. 
Where rocks on rocks dread frowning rise. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 131^ 

When Autumn shakes his hoary head, 
And scatters leaves at every tread ; 
Fancy stands with list'ning ear, 
Nor starts, when shrieks affrighted Fear. 

There's music in the rattling leaf, 
But 't is not for the ear of Grief; 
There's music in the wind's hoarse moan. 
But 'tis for Fancy's ear alone. 



THE BLUSH. 

(Writtten in her thirteenth year.) 

Why that blush on Ella's cheek. 
What doth the flitting wand'rer seek 1 
Doth passion's black'ning tempest scowl, 
To agitate my Ella's soul ? 

Return, sweet wand'rer, fear no harm ; 
The heart which Ella's breast doth warm. 
Is virtue's calm, serene retreat ; 
And ne'er with passion's storm did beat. 

Return, and calmly rest, till love 
Shall thy sweet efficacy prove; 
Then come, and thy loved place resume, 
A-nd fill that cheek with youthful bloom. 

A blush of nature charms the heart 
More than the brilliant tints of art ; 
They please awhile, and please no more — 
We hate the things we loved before. 

But no unfadins^ tints were those. 
Which to my Ella's cheek arose; 



132 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

They please the raptured heart, and fly 
Before they pall the gazing eye. 

'T was not the blush of guilt or shame, 
Which o'er my Ella's features came ; 
'T was she, who fed the poor distressed, 
'T was she the indigent had blessed ; 

For her their prayers to heaven were raised, 
On her the grateful people gazed ; 
'T was then the blush suffused her cheek, • 
Which told what words can never speak. 



ON AN iEOLIAN HARP. 

(Written in her fourteenth year.) 

»What heavenly music strikes my ravished ear, 
So soft, so melancholy, and so clear? 
And do the tuneful Nine then touch the lyre, 
To fill each bosom with poetic fire 1 

Or does some angel strike the sounding strings, 
Catching from echo the wild note he sings ? 
But hark ! another strain, how sweet, how wild ! 
Now rising high, now sinking low and mild. 

And tell me now, ye spirits of the wind, 
Oh, tell me where those artless notes to find ! 
So lofty now, so loud, so sweet, so clear. 
That even angels might delighted hear ! 

But hark ! those notes again majestic rise, 
As though some spirit, banished from the skies, 
Had hither fled to charm ^Eolus wild, 
And teach him other music sweet and mild. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 133 



Then hither fly, sweet mourner of the air, 
Then hither fly, and to my harp repair; 
At twilight chaunt the melancholy lay, 
And charm the sorrows of thy soul away. 



THE COQUETTE. 

(Written in her fourteenth year.) 

I hae nae sleep, I hae nae rest, 

My Ellen 's lost for aye, 
My heart is sair and much distressed, 
I surely soon must die. 

I canna think o' wark at a'. 

My eyes still wander far, 
I see her neck like driven snaw, 

I see her flaxen hair. 

Sair, sair, I begged; she would na' hear, 

She proudly turned awa'. 
Unmoved she saw the trickling tear, 

Which, spite o' me, would fa'. 

She acted weel a conqueror's part, 

She triumphed in my woe. 
She gracefu' waved me to depart, 

I tried, but could na' go. 

"Ah why," (distractedly I cried,) 

" Why yield me to despair ? 
Bid ling'ring Hope resume her sway, 

To ease my heart sae sair." 

11# 



134 LITRETIA MARIA DA^'!DSO^^ 

She scornfu' smiled, and bade ine sro ! 

This roused my dormant pride ; 
I craved nae boon — I took nae luke, 

*• Adieu !" I proudly cried. 

I fled ! nor Ellen hae I seen, 

Sin* that too fiital day: 
My "bosom's laird" sits heavy here, 

And Hope 's fled far away. 

Care, darkly brooding, bodes a storm. 
Pin Sorrow's child indeed: 

She stamps her image on mv form, 
I wear the mourninii weed ! 



ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT. 

(Written in her fourteenth year.) 

Sweet child, and hast thou gone, for ever fled ! 
Low lies thy body in its grassy bed ; 
But thy freed soul swit't bends its flight through air, 
Thy heavenly Father's gracious love to share. 

And now, methinks, I see thee clothed in white, 
Minojlins: with saints, like thee, celestial briorht. — 
Look down, sweet angel, on thy friends below. 
And mark their trickling tears of silent woe. 

Look down with pity in thy infant eye. 

And view the friends thou left, for friends on high : 

Methinks I see thee leaning from above, 

To whisper, to those friends, of peace and love. 

"Weep not for me, for I am happy still. 
And murmur not at our great Father's will; 



POETICAL REMAINS. 135 

Let not this blow your trust in Jesus shake, 
Our Saviour gave, and it is his to take. 

*' Once you looked forward to life's opening day. 
The scene was bright, and pleasant seemed the way; 
Hope drew the picture, Fancy, ever near. 
Coloured it bright — 'tis blotted with a tear. 

" Then let that tear be Resignation's child ; 
Yielding to Heaven's high will, be calm, be mild; 
Weep for your child no more, she 's happy still, 
And murmur not at your great Father's will." 



REFLECTIONS, 

ON CROSSING LAKE CHAMPLAIN IN THE STEAMBOAT PHCEKDL 
(Written in her fourteenth year.) 

Islet* on the lake's calm bosom. 

In thy breast rich treasures lie; 
Heroes ! there your bones shall moulder, 

But your fame shall never die. 

Islet on the lake's calm bosom, 

Sleep serenely in thy bed ; 
Brightest gem our waves can boast, 

Guardian angel of the dead I 

Calm upon the waves recline. 

Till great Nature's reign is o'er; 
Until old and swift-winged time 

Sinks, and order is no more. 

* Crab Island ; on which were buried the remains of the sailors 
who fell in the action of September 11th, 1314. 



136 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Then thy guardianship shall cease, 
Then shall rock thy aged bed ; 

And when Heaven's last trump shall sound, 
Thou shalt yield thy noble dead ! 



THE STAR OF LIBERTY. 

(Written in her fourteenth year.) 

There shone a gem on England's crown, 

Bright as yon star; 
Oppression marked it with a frown, 
He sent his darkest spirit down. 
To quench the light that round it shone, 

Blazing afar. 
But Independence met the foe, 
And laid the swift-winged demon low. 

A second messenger was sent, 

Dark as the night ; 
On his dire errand swift he went. 
But Valour's bow was truly bent, 
Justice her keenest arrow lent, 

And sped its flight ; 
Then fell the impious wretch, and Death 
Approached, to take his withering breath. 

Valour then took, with hasty hand. 

The gem of light; 
He flew to seek some other land. 
He flew to 'scape oppression's hand, 
He knew there was some other strand. 

More bright; 
And as he swept the fields of air. 
He found a country, rich and fair. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 137 

Upon its breast the star he placed, 

The star of liberty ; 

Bright, and more bright the meteor blazed, 

The lesser planets stood amazed. 

Astonished mortals, wondering, gazed, 

Looking on fearfully. 

That star shines brightly to this day, 

On thy calm breast, America ! 



THE MERMAID. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

Maid of the briny wave and raven lock. 

Whose bed's the sea-weed, and whose throne's the 

rock. 
Tell me, what fate compels thee thus to ride 
O'er the tempestuous ocean's foaming tide ? 

Art thou some naiad, who, at Neptune's nod. 
Flies to obey the mandate of that god ? 
Art thou the syren, who, when night draws on, 
Chauntest thy farewell to the setting sun? 

Or, leaning on thy wave-encircled rock. 
Twining with lily hand thy raven lock ; 
Dost thou, in accents wild, proclaim the storm. 
Which soon shall wrap th' unwary sailor's form? 

Or dost thou round the wild Charybdis play. 
To warn the seaman from his dangerous way? 
Or, shrieking midst the tempest, chaunt the dirge 
Of shipwrecked sailors, buried in the surge? 

Tell me, mysterious being, what you are? 
So wild, so strange, so lonely, yet so fair! 



138 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Tell me, O tell me, why you sit alone, 
Singing so sweetly on the wave-washed stone ? 

And tell me, that if e'er I find my grave. 
Beneath the ocean's wildly troubled wave, 
That thou with weeds wilt strew my watery bed, 
And hush the roaring billows o'er my head. 



ON SOLITUDE. 

(Written in Her fourteenth year.) 

Sweet Solitude ! I love thy silent shade, 
I love to pause when in Hfe's mad career : 

To view the chequered path before me laid, 
And turn to meditate — to hope, to fear. 

'T is sweet to draw the curtain on the world. 
To shut out all its tumult, all its care; 

Leave the dread vortex, in which all are whirled, 
And to thy shades of twilight calm repair. 

Yet, Solitude, the hand divine, which made 
The earth, the ocean, and the realms of air, 

Pointed how far thy kingdom should extend, 

And bade thee pause, for he had fixed thee there. 

Then, when disgusted with the world and man, 
When sick of pasjeantry, of pomp, and pride, 

To thee I Ml fly, in thee I '11 seek relief. 

And hope to find that calm the world denied. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 139 

ON THE BIRTH OF A SISTER. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

Sweet babe, I cannot hope thou wilt be freed 
From woes, to all, since earliest time, decreed ; 
But mayest thou be with resignation blessed, 
To bear each evil, howsoe'er distressed. 

May Hope her anchor lend amid the storm. 
And o'er the tempest rear her angel form ! 
May sweet Benevolence, whose words are peace. 
To the rude whirlwinds softly whisper *' cease !" 

And may Religion, Heaven's own darling child, 
Teach thee at human cares and griefs to smile ; 
Teach thee to look beyond this worldrof woe, 
To Heaven's high fount, whence mercies ever flow. 

And when this vale of tears is safely passed. 
When Death's dark curtain shuts the scene at last^- 
May thy freed spirit leave this earthly sod, 
And fly to seek the bosom of thy God. 



A DREAM. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) | 

Methought, (unwitting how the place I gained,) 
I rested on a fleecy, floating cloud - 
Far o'er the earth, the stars, the sun, the heavens, 
And slowly wheeled around the dread expanse ! 
Sudden, methought, a trumpet's voice was heard, 
Pealing with long, loud, death-awakening note, 



140 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

• 
Such note as mortal man but once may hear ! 
At that heart-piercing summons, there arose 
A crowd fast pouring from the troubled earth! 
The earth, that blackened speck alone seemed moved 
By the dread note, which rushed, 
Like pent-up whirlwinds, round Heaven's azure 

vault ; 
All other worlds, all other twinkling stars 
Stood mute — stood motionless; 
Their time had not yet come. 
Yet, ever and anon, they seemed to bow 
Before the dread tribunal ; 
And the fiery comet, as it blaztd along. 
Stopped in its midway course, as conscious of the 

power 
Which onward ever, ever had impelled ; 
No other planet moved, none seemed convulsed, 
Save the dim orb of earth ! 

Forth eddying rushed a crowd, confused and dark, 
Like a volcano, muttering and subdued ! 

There came no sound distinct, but sighs and groans, 

And murmurings half suppressed, half uttered ! 

All eyes were upward turned in wonder and in fear, 

But soon, methought, they onward rolled 

To the dread High One's bar. 

As the tumultuous billows rush murmuring to the 
shore. 

And all distinctions dwindled into naught. 

Upward I cast my eyes ; 

High on an azure throne, begirt with clouds, 

Sate the dread Indescribable ! 

He raised his sceptre, waved it o'er the crowd, 

And all was calm and silent as the grave ! 

He rose ; the cherubs flapped their snowy wings ! 

On came the rushing wind — the throne was moved, 

And flew like gliding swan above the crowd ! 



POETICAL REMAINS. 141 

Sudden it stopped o'er the devoted world ! 

The Judge moved forward 'mid his sable shroud, 

Raised his strong arm with roUing thunders clothed, 

Held forth a vial filled with wrathful fire. 

Then poured the contents on the waiting globe ! 

Sudden the chain, which bound it to God's throne, 

Snapped with a dire explosion ! 

On wheeled the desolate — the burning orb 

Swift through the heavens! 

Down, down it plunged — then shot across the ex- 
panse, 

Blazing through realms, where light had never 
pierced ! 

Down, down it plunged — fast wheeling from above, 

Shooting forth flames, and sparks, and burning brands, 

Traihng from shade to shade ! 

Then bounding, blazing — brighter than before, 

It plunged extinguished in the chaotic gulf! 



TO MY SISTER. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.*) 

When evening spreads her shades around, 
And darkness fills the arch of heaven ; 

When not a murmur, not a sound 
To Fancy's sportive ear is given ; 

When the broad orb of heaven is bright, 
And looks around with golden eye ; 

When Nature, softened by her light, 
Seems calmly, solemnly to lie; 

* See Biographical Sketch. 
12 



143 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Then, when our thoughts are raised above 
This world, and all this world can give; 

Oh, sister, sing the song I love, 
And tears of gratitude receive. 

The song which thrills my bosom's core, 
And hovering, trembles, half afraid ; 

O sister, singj the song once more 

Which ne'er for mortal ear was made. 

'T were almost sacrilege to sing 
Those notes amid the glare of day ; 

Notes borne by angels' purest wing. 
And wafted by their breath away. 

When sleeping in my grass-grown bed, 
Should'st thou siill linger here above. 

Wilt thou not kneel beside my head, 
And, sister, sing the song I love 1 



CUPID'S BOWER. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

Am I in fairy land ? or tell me, pray. 
To what love-lighted bower I 've found my way? 
Sure luckless wight was never more beguiled 
In woodland maze, or closely-tangled wild. 

And is this .Cupid's realm ? if so, good bye ! 
Cupid, and Cupid's votaries, I fly ; 
No offering to his altar do I bring, 
No bleeding heart — or hymeneal ring. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 143 

What though he proudly marshals his array 
Of conquered hearts, still bleeding in his way ; 
Of sighs, of kisses sweet, of glances sly, 
Playing around some darkly-beauteous eye 1 

What though the rose of beauty opening wide, 
Blooms but for him, and fans his lordly pride ? 
What though his garden boasts the fairest flower 
That ever dew-drop kissed, or pearly shower ; 

Still, Cupid, I 'm no votary to thee ; 
Thy torch of light will never blaze for me ; 
I ask no glance of thine, I ask no sigh ; 
I brave thy fury, and thus boldly fly ! 

Adieu, then, and for evermore, adieu ! 
Ye poor entangled ones, farewell to you ! 
And, O ye powers ! a hapless mortal prays 
For guidance through this labyrinthine maze. 



THE FAMILY TIME-PIECE. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

Friend of my heart, thou monitor of youth. 
Well do I love thee, dearest child of truth ; 
Though many a lonely hour thy whisperings low 
Have made sad chorus to the notes of woe. 

Or 'mid the happy hour which joyful flew, 
Thou still wert faithful, still unchanged, still true ; 
Or when the task employed my infant mind, 
Oft have I sighed to see thee lag behind ; 



144 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

And watched thy finger, with a youthful glee, 
When it had pointed silently, " be free :" 
Thou wert my mentor through each passing year ; 
'Mid pain or pleasure, thou wert ever near. 

And when the wings of time unnoticed flew, 
I paused, reflected, wondered, turned to you ; 
Paused in my heedless round, to mark thy hand, 
Pointing to conscience, like a magic wand ; 

To watch thee stealing on thy silent way, 
Silent, but sure, Time's pinions cannot stay; 
How many hours of pleasure, hours of pain. 
When smiles were bright'ning round affliction's train? 

How many hours of poverty and woe. 
Which taught cold drops of agony to flow? 
How many hours of war,* of blood, of death. 
Which added laurels to the victor's wreath ? 

How many deep-drawn sighs thy hand hath told, 
And dimmed the smile, and dried the tear which 

rolled ? 
When the loud cannon spoke the voice of war. 
And death and bloodshed whirled their crimson car? 

When the proud banner, waving in the breeze. 
Had welcomed war, and bade adieu to peace. 
Thy faithful finger traced the wing of time, 
Pointed to earth, and then to heaven sublime. 

Unmoved amid the carnage of the world, 
When thousands to eternity were hurled, 
Thy head was reared aloft, truth's chosen child. 
Beaming serenely through the troubled wild. 

* Alluding, probably, to the late war scenes at Plattsburgh. — 
Editor. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 145 

Friend of my youth, ere from its mould'ring clay 
My joyful spirit wings to heaven its way ; 
O may'st thou watch beside my aching head, 
And tell how fast time flits with feathered tread. 



ON THE 
EXECUTION OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

Touch not the heart, for Sorrow's voice 

Will mingle in the chorus wild ; 
When Scotland weeps, canst thou rejoice ? 

No : rather mourn her murdered child. 

Sing how on Carberry's mount of blood, 

'Mid foes exulting in her doom, 
The captive Mary fearless stood, 

A helpless victim for the tomb. 

Justice and Mercy, 'frighted, fled. 

And shrouded was Hope's beacon blaze. 

When, like a lamb to slaughter led. 
Poor Mary met her murderers' gaze. 

Calm was her eye as yon dark lake. 
And changed her once angelic form; 

No sigh was heard the pause to break, 
That awful pause before the storm. 

O draw the veil, 't were shame to gaze 

Upon the bloody tragedy ; 
But lo I a brilliant halo plays 

Around the hill of Carberry. 
12* 



146 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

'Tis done — and Mary's soul has flown 
Beyond this scene of blood and death; 

'Tis done — the lovely saint has gone 
To claim in heaven a thornless wreath. 

But as Elijah, when his car 

Wheeled on towards heaven its path of light, 
Dropped on his friend, he left afar, 

His mantle, like a meteor bright; 

So Mary, when her spirit flew 

Far from this world, so sad, so weary, 

A crown of fame immortal threw 
Around the brow of Carberry. 



THE DESTRUCTION OP 

SODOM AND GOMORRAH. 

" And he looked towards Sodom and Gomorrah, and lo ! the 
smoke of the country went up as the smoke of a furnace." 

(Written in her fourteenth year.) 

O dread was the night, when o'er Sodom's wide plain 

The fire of heaven descended ; 
For all that then bloomed, shall ne'er blcjii^ there 
again. 

For man hath his Maker offended. 

The midnight of terror and woe hath pasv.d by, 

The death-spirit's pinions are furled ; 
But the sun, as it beams clear and brilliant on high 

Hides from Sodom's dark, desolate world. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 147 

Here lies but that glassy, that death-stricken lake, 
As in mockery of what had been there ; 

The wild bird ilies far from the dark nestling brake, 
Which waves its scorched arms in the air. 

In that city the wine-cup was brilliantly flowing, 

Joy held her high festival there; 
Not a fond bosom dreaming, (in luxury glowing,) 

Of the close of that night of despair. 

For the bride, her handmaiden the garland was 
wreathing. 

At the altar the bridegroom was waiting. 
But vengeance impatiently round them was breathing. 

And Death at that shrine was their greeting. 

But the wine-cup is empty, and broken it* lies, 

The lip which it foamed for, is cold ; 
For the red wing of Death o'er Gomorrah now flies, 

And Sodom is wrapped in its fold. 

The bride is wedded, but the bridegroom is Death, 
With his cold, damp, and grave-like hand; 

Her pillow is ashes, the slime-weed her wreath. 
Heaven's flames are her nuptial band. 

And near to that cold, that desolate sea, 
Whose fruits are to ashes now turned, 

Not a fresh-blown flower, not a budding tree. 
Now blooms where those cities were burned. 



148 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



RUTH'S ANSWER TO NAOMI. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

Entreat me not, I must not hear, 
Mark but this sorrow-beaming tear; 
Thy answer's written deeply now 
On this warm cheek and clouded brow; 
'T is gleaming o'er this eye of sadness 
Which only near thee sparkles gladness. 

The hearts most dear to us are gone, 
And thou and / are left alone ; 
Where'er thou wanderest, I will go, 
I '11 follow thee through joy or woe ; 
Shouldst thou to other countries fly. 

Where'er thou lodgest, there will I. 

» 

Thy people shall my people be. 
And to thy God, I '11 bend the knee ; 
Whither thou fliest, will I fly, 
And where thou diest, I will die; 
And the same sod which pillows thee 
Shall freshly, sweetly bloom for me. 



DAVID AND JONATHAN. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

On the brow of Gilboa is war's bloody stain, 
The pride and the beauty of Israel is slain ; 
O publish it not in proud Askelon's street, 
Nor tell it in Gath, lest in triumph they meet. 

For how are the mighty fallen ! 



POETICAL REMAINS. 149 

O mount of Gilboa, no dew shall thou see, 
Save the blood of the Philistine fall upon thee; 
For the strong-pinioned eagle of Israel is dead, 
Thy brow is his pillow, thy bosom his bed ! 

O how are the mighty fallen ! 

Weep, daughters of Israel, weep o'er his grave ! 
What breast will now pity, what arm will now save"? 
O my brother! my brother! this heart bleeds for^ thee, 
For thou wert a friend and a brother to me 1 

Ah, how are the mighty fallen 1 



THE SICK-BED. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

O have you watched beside the bed. 
Where rests the weary, aching head ? 

And have you heard the long, deep groan, 
The low-said prayer, in half-breathed tone? 

O have you seen the fevered sleep, 
Which speaks of agony within ] 

The eye which would, but cannot weep, 
And wipe away the stains of sin 1 

have you marked the struggling breath, 
Which would but cannot leave its clay? 

And have you marked the hand of death 
Unbind, and bid it haste away 1 

Then thou hast seen what thou shalt feel ; 

Then thou hast read thy future doom ; 
O pause, one moment, o'er death's seal, 

There 's no repentance' in the tomb. 



IdO LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

DEATH. 

(Written in her sixteentli year.) 

'fhe destroyer cometh ; his footstep is light, 
He marketh the threshold of sorrow at night ; 
He steals like a thief o'er the fond one's repose, 
And chills the warm tide from the heart as it flows. 

His throne is the tomb, and a pestilent breath 
Walks forth on the night-wind, the herald of death ! 
His couch is the bier, and the dark weeds of woe 
Are the curtains which shroud joy's deadliest foe. 

TO MY MOTHER. 

(Written' in her sixteenth year.) 

thou whose care sustained my infant years, 
And taught my prattling lip each note of love ; 

Whose soothing voice breathed comfort to my fears, 
And round my brow hope's brightest garland wove; 

To thee my lay is due, the simple song, 

Which Nature gave me at life's opening day ; 

To thee these rude, these untaught strains belong. 
Whose heart indulgent will not spurn my lay. 

O say, amid this wilderness of life, 

What bosom would have throbbed like thine for me 1 
Who would have smiled responsive? — who in grief, 

Would e'er have felt, and, feeling, grieved like thee 1 



POETICAL REMAINS. 151 

Who would have guarded, with a falcon eye, 
Each trembling footstep or each sport of fear? 

Who would have marked my bosom bounding high, 
And clasped me to her heart, with love's bright tear? 

Who would have hung around my sleepless couch, 
And fanned, with anxious hand, my burning brow? 

Who would have fondly pressed my fevered lip, 
In all the agony of love and woe ? 

None but a mother — none but one like thee, 
Whose bloom has faded in the midnight watch ; 

Whose eye, for me, has lost its witchery, 
Whose form has felt disease's mildew touch. 

Yes, thou hast lighted me to health and life, 
By the bright lustre of thy youthful bloom — 

Yes, thou hast wept so oft o'er every grief, 

That woe hath traced thy brow with noarks of 
gloom. 

O then, to thee, this rude and simple song, 

Which breathes of thankfulness and love for thee, 

To thee, my mother, shall this lay belong, 
Whose life is spent in toil and care for me. 



SABRINA. 

A VOLCANIC ISLAND, WHICH APPEARED AND Dlff- 
APPEARED AMONG THE AZORES, IN 1811. 

(Written in her sixteenth year.) 

Isle of the ocean, say, whence comest thou ? 
The smoke thy dark throne, and the blaze round thy 
brow; 



152 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

The voice of the earthquake proclaims thee abroad, 
And the deep, at thy coming, rolls darkly and loud. 

From the breast of the ocean, the bed of the wave, 
Thou hast burst into being, hast sprung from the grave; 
A stranger, wild, gloomy, yet terribly bright. 
Thou art clothed with the darkness, yet crowned 
with the light. 

Thou comest in flames, thou hast risen in fire ; 
The wave is thy pillow, the tempest thy choir; 
They will lull thee to sleep on the ocean's broad breast, 
A slumb'ring volcano, an earthquake at rest. 

Thou hast looked on the isle — tliou hast looked on 

the wave — 
Then hie thee again to thy deep, watery grave ; 
Go, quench thee in ocean, thou dark, nameless thing, 
Thou spark from the fallen one's wide flaming wing. 



THE PROPHECY. 

TO A LADY. 

(Written in her sixteenth year.) 

Let nae gaze awhile on that marble brow, 

On that full, dark eye, on that cheek's warm glow ; 

Let me gaze for a moment, that, ere I die, 

I may read thee, maiden, a prophecy. 

That brow may beam in glory awhile ; 

That cheek may bloom, and that lip may smile ; 

That full, dark eye may brightly beam 

In life's gay morn, in hope's young dream ; 



POETICAL REMAINS. 153, 

But clouds shall darken that brow of snow, 

And sorrow Wight thy bosom's glow. 

1 know by that spirit so haughty and* high, 

I know by that brightly-flashing eye, 

That, maiden, there 's that within thy breast, 

Which hath marked thee out for a soul unblest : 

The strife of love, with pride shall wring 

Thy youthful bosom's tenderest string; 

And the cup of sorrow, mingled for thee, 

Shall be drained to the dregs in agony. 

Yes, maiden, yes, I read in thine eye, 

A dark, and a doubtful prophecy. 

Thou shalt love, and that love shall be thy curse ; 

Thou wilt need no heavier, thou shalt feel no worse, 

I see the cloud and the tempest near; 

The voice of the troubled tide I hear ; 

The torrent of sorrow, the sea of grief, 

The rushing waves of a wretched life; 

Thy bosom's bark on the surge I see, 

And, maiden, thy loved one is there with thee. 

Not a star in the heavens, not a light on the wave! 

Maiden, I've gazed on thine early grave. 

When I am cold, and the hand of Death 

Hath crowned my brow with an icy wreath ; 

When the dew hangs damp on this motionless lip; 

When this eye is closed in its long, last sleep. 

Then, maiden, pause, when thy heart beats high. 

And think on my last sad prophecy. 



13 



154 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



PROPHECY II. 

TO ANOTHER LADY. 
(Written in her sixteenth year.) 

I have told a maiden of hours of grief, 

Of a bleeding heart, of a joyless life; 

I have read her a tale of future v^^oe; 

I have marked her a pathway of sorrow below; 

I have read on the page of her blooming cheek, 

A darker doom than my tongue dare speak. 

Now, maiden, for thee, I will turn mine eye 

To a brighter path through futurity. 

The clouds shall pass from thy brow away, 

And bright be the closing of life's long day ; 

The storms shall murmur in silence to sleep, 

And angels around thee their watches shall keep; 

Thou shalt live in the sunbeams of love and delight, 

And thy life shall flow on till it fades into night ; 

And the twilight of age shall come quietly on ; 

Thou wilt feel, yet regret not, that daylight hath flown; 

For the shadows of evening shall melt o'er thy soul. 

And the soft dreams of Heaven around thee shall roll, 

Till sinking in sweet, dreamless slumber to rest. 

In the arms of thy loved one, still blessing and blest, 

Thy soul shall glide on to its harbour in Heaven, 

Every tear wiped away — every error forgiven. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 156 



PROPHECY III. 

TO ANOTHER LADY. 

(WrittPn in her sixteenth year.) 

Wilt thou rashly unveil the dark volume of fate? 
It is open before thee, repentance is late ; 
Too late, for behold, o'er the dark page of woe. 
Move the days of thy grief, yet unnumbered below. 
There is one, whose sad destiny mingles with thine ; 
He was formed to be happy — he dared to repine; 
And jealousy mixed in his bright cup of bliss, 
And the page of his fate grew still darker than this: 
He gazed on thee, maiden, he met thee, and passed; 
But better for thee had the Siroc's fell blast • 
Swept by thee, and wasted and faded thee there, 
So youthful, so happy, so thoughtless, so fair. 
And mark ye his broad brow ? 't is noble ; 't is high ; 
And mark ye the flash of his dark, eagle-eye ? 
When the wide wheels of time have encircled the 

world ; 
When the banners of night in the sky are unfurled ; 
Then, maiden, remember the tale I have told, 
For farther I may not, I dare not unfold. 
The rose on yon dark page is sear and decayed. 
And thus, e'en in youth, shall thy fondest hopes fade; 
'T is an emblem of thee, broken, withered, and pale — 
Nay, start not, and blanch not, though dark be the tale; 
An hour-glass half-spent, and a tear-bedewed token, 
A heart, withered, wasted, and bleeding and broken, 
All these are the emblems of sorrow to be; 
I will veil the page, maiden, in pity to thee. 



156 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

BYRON. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

His faults were great, his virtues less, 
His mind a burning lamp of Heaven; 

His talents were bestowed to bless, 
But were as vainly lost as given. 

His was a harp of heavenly sound, 

The numbers wild, and bold, and clear; 

But ah ! some demon, hovering round. 
Tuned its sweet chords to Sin and Fear. 

His was a mind of giant mould. 

Which grasped at all beneath the skies; 

And his, a heart, so icy cold. 
That virtue in its recess dies. 



FEATS OF DEATH. 

(Written in her sixteenth year.) 

I have passed o'er the earth in the darkness of night, 
I have walked the wild winds in the morning's broad 

light; 
I have paused o'er the bower where the Infant lay 

sleeping, 
And I 've left the fond mother in sorrow and weeping. 

My pinion was spread, and the cold dew of night 
Which withers and moulders the flower in its light, 



POETICAL REMAINS. 157 

Fell silently o'er the warm cheek in its glow, 
And I left it there blighted, and wasted, and low ; 
I culled the fair bud, as it danced in its mirth, 
And I left it to moulder and fade on the earth. 

I paused o'er the valley, the glad sounds of joy 
Rose soft through the mist, and ascended on high ; 
The fairest were there, and I paused in my flight, 
And the deep cry of wailing broke wildly that night. 

I stay not to gather the lone one to earth, 
I spare not the young in their gay dance of mirth. 
But I sweep them all on to their home in the grave, 
I stop not to pity — I stay not to save. 

I paused in my pathway, for beauty was there ; 
It was beauty too death-like, too cold, and too fair ! 
The deep purple fountain seemed melting away. 
And the faint pulse of life scarce remembered to play; 
She had thought on the tomb, she was waiting for me. 
I gazed, I passed on, and her spirit was free. 

The clear stream rolled gladly, and bounded along, 
With ripple, and murmur, and sparkle, and song; 
The minstrel was tuning his wild harp to love. 
And sweet, and half-sad were the numbers he wove. 
I passed, and the harp of the bard was unstrung; 
O'er the stream which rolled deeply, 'twas recklessly 

hung ; 
The minstrel was not ! and I passed on alone. 
O'er the newly-raised turf, and the rudely-carved 

stone. 



13* 



15S LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

au<:tion extraordinary. 

(Written in her eixteentb jear.) 

I dreamed a dream in the midst of my slumbers, 
And as fast as I dreamed it. it came into numbers; 
My thoughts ran along in such beautiful metre, 
I'm sure I ne'er saw any poetry sweeter; 
It seemed that a law had been recently made 
That a tax on old bachelors* pates should be laid: 
And in order to make them all willing to marry. 
The tax was as large as a man could well carry. 
The bachelors grumbled, and said 't was no use ; 
'T was horrid injustice, and horrid abuse, 
And declared that to save their own hearts'-blood 

from spilling, 
Of such a vile tax they would not pay a shilling. 
But the rulers determined them still to pursue, 
So they set the old bachelors up at vendue. 
A crier was sent through the town to and fro, 
To rattle his bell, and his trumpet to blow, . 
And to call out to all he might meet in his way, 
" Ho I forty old bachelors sold here to-day I'* 
And presently all the old maids in the town. 
Each in her very best bonnet and gown, 
From thirty to sixtv, fair, plain, red, and pale. 
Of every description, all flocked to the sale. 
The auctioneer then in his labour began. 
And called out aloud, as he held up a man, 
•'How much for a bachelor? who wants to buy?" 
In a twink.* every maiden responded, "I, — I;" 

* " That m a twink she won me to her love." — Shakgpeare, 
[Editor.] • 



POETICAL REMAINS. 159 



In short, at a highly-extravagant price, 

The bachelors all were sold oft' in a trice; 

And forty old maidens, some younger, some older, 

Each lugged an old bachelor home on her shoulder. 



THE BACHELOR. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

To the world, (whose dread laugh he would tremble 

to hear, 
From whose scorn he would shrink with a cowardly 

fear,) 
The old bachelor proudly and boldly will say, 
Single lives are the longest, single lives are most gay. 

To the ladies, with pride, he will always declare. 
That the links in love's chain are strife, trouble, and 

care ; 
That a wife is a torment, and he will have none. 
But at pleasure will roam through the wide world 

alone. 

And let him pass on, in his sulky of state ; 
O say, who would envy that mortal his fate ? 
To brave all the ills of life's tempest alone. 
Not a heart to respond the warm notes of his own. 

His joys undivided no longer will please ; 

The warrp tide of his heart through inaction will 

freeze : 
His sorrows concealed, and unanswered his sighs, 
The old bachelor curses his follv, and dies. 



160 LUCRETIA- MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Pass on, then, proud lone one, pass on to thy fate ; 
Thy sentence is sealed, thy repentance loo late; 
Like an arrow, which leaves not a trace on the wind, 
No mark of thy pathway shall linger behind. 

Not a sweet voice shall murmur its sighs o'er thy tomb; 
Not a fair hand shall teach thy lone pillow to bloom; 
Not a kind tear shall water thy dark, lonely bed ; 
By the living 't was scorned, 't is refused to the dead. 



THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 

TO MISS E. C. COMPOSED ON A BLANK LEAF OF 

HER PALEY, DURING RECITATION. 

(Written in her sixteenth year.) 

I 'm thy guardian angel, sweet maid, and I rest 
In mine own chosen temple, thy innocent breast ; 
At midnight I steal from my sacred retreat, 
When the chords of thy heart in soft unison beat. 

When thy bright eye is closed, when thy dark tresses 

flow 
In beautiful wreaths o'er thy pillow of snow ; 

then I watch o'er thee, all pure as thou art, 
And listen to music which steals from thy heart. 

Thy smile is the sunshine which gladdens my soul, 
My tempest the clouds, which around thee may roll; 

1 feast my light form on thy rapture-breathed sighs, 
And drink at the fount of those beautiful eves. 

The thoughts of thy heart are recorded by me ; 
There are some which, half-breathed, half-acknow- 
ledged by thee, 



POETICAL REMAINS. 161 

Steal sweetly and silently o'er thy pure breast, 
Just ruffling its calmness, then murm'ring to rest. 

Like a breeze o'er the lake, when it breathlessly lies, 
With its own mimic mountains, and star-spangled 

skies, 
I stretch my light pinions around thee when sleeping. 
To guard thee from spirits of sorrow and weeping. 

I breathe o'er thy slumbers sweet dreams of delight, 
Till you wake but to sigh for the visions of night ; 
Then remember, wherever your pathway nnay lie, 
Be it clouded with sorrow, or brilliant with joy. 
My spirit shall watch thee, wherever thou art, 
My incense shall rise from the throne of thy heart 
Farewell ! for the shadows of evening are fled. 
And the young rays of morning are wreathed round 
my head. 



ON THE CREW OF A VESSEL, 

WHO WERE FOUND DEAD AT SEA. 

(Written in her fijflteenth year.) 

The breeze blew fair, the waving sea 
Curled sparkling round the vessel's side ; 

The canvass spread with bosom free 
Its swan-like pinions o'er the tide. 

Evening had gemmed with glittering stars, 

Her coronet so darkly grand ; 
The Queen of Night, with fleecy clouds. 

Had formed her turban's snowy band. 



162 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

On, on the stately vessel flew, 

With streamer waving far and wide ; 

When lo ! a bark appeared in view, 
And gaily danced upon the tide. 

Each way the breeze its wild wing veered. 
That way the stranger vessel turned ; 

Now near she drew, now wafted far, 
She fluttered, trembled, and returned. 

** It is the pirate's cursed bark ! 

The villains linger to decoy ! 
Thus bounding o'er the waters dark. 

They seek to lure, and then destroy. 

" Perchance, those strange and wayward signs 

May be the signals of distress," 
The Captain cried, " for mark ye, now, 

Her sails are flapping wide and loose." 

And now the stranger vessel came 
Near to that gay and gallant bark; 

It seemed a wanderer fair and lone, 
Upon Life's wave, so deep and dark. 

And not a murmur, not a sound. 
Came from that lone and dreary ship; 

The icy chains of silence bound 
Each rayless eye and pallid lip. 

For Death's wing had been waving there, 
The cold dew hung on every brow. 

And sparkled there, like angel tears. 
Shed o'er the silent crew below. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 163 

Onward that ship was gaily flying, 

Its bosom the sailor's grave ; 
The breeze, 'mid the shrouds, in low notes, sighing 

Their requiem over the brave. 

Fly on, fly on, thou lone vessel of death, 

Fly on, with thy desolate crew ; 
For mermaids are twining a sea-weed wreath, 

'Mong the red coral groves for you. 



WOMAN'S LOVE. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

They told me of her history — her love 

Was a neglected flame, which had consumed 

The vase wherein it kindled. O how fraught 

With bitterness is unrequited love ! 

To know that we have cast life's hope away 

On a vain shadow ! 

Hers was a gentle passion, quiet, deep, 

As a woman's love should be, 

All tenderness and silence, only known 

By the soft meaning of a downcast eye, 

Which almost fears to look its timid thoughts; 

A sigh, scarce heard; a blush, scarce visible, 

Alone may give it utterance. — Love is 

A beautiful feeling in a woman's heart. 

When felt, as only woman love can feel ! 

Pure, as the snow-fall, when its latest shower 

Sinks on spring-flowers ; deep, as a cave-locked 

fountain ; 
And changeless as the cypress's green leaves ; 
And like them, sad ! She nourished 



164 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Fond hopes and sweet anxieties, and fed 

A passion unconfessed, till he she loved 

Was wedded to another. — Then she grew 

Moody and melancholy ; one alone 

Had power to soothe her in her wanderings, 

Her gentle sister ; — But that sister died, 

And the unhappy girl was left alone, 

A maniac. — She would wander far, and shunned 

Her own accustonaed dwelling; and her haunt 

Was that dead sister's grave : and that to her 

Was as a home. 



TO A LADY, 

WHOSE SINGING RESEMBLED THAT OF AN" ABSENT 

SISTER. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

Oh ! touch the chord yet once again, 
Nor chide me, though I weep the while; 

Believe me, that deep seraph strain 

Bore with it memory's moonlight smile. 

It murmured of an absent friend ; 

The voice, the air, 't was all her own ; 
And hers those wild, sweet notes, which blend 

In one mild, murmuring, touching tone. 

And days and months have darkly passed, 
Since last I listened to lier lay ; 

And Sorrow's cloud its shade hath cast, 
Since then, across my weary way. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 165 

Yet still the strain comes sweet and clear, 
Like seraph- whispers, lightly breathing; 

Hush, busy memory, Sorrow's tear 

Will blight the garland thou art wreathing. 

'T is sweet, though sad — yes, I will stay, 

I cannot tear myself away. 

I thank thee, lady, for the strain. 

The tempest of my soul is still; 
Then touch the chord vet once aorain. 

For thou canst calm the storm at will ! 



TO MY FRIEND AND PATRON, 

M K , ESQ. 

(Written in her sixteenth year.) 

And can my simple harp be strung 
To higher theme, to nobler end, 

Than that of gratitude to thee. 
To thee, my father and my friend ? 

I may not, cannot, will not say 

• All that a grateful heart would breathe ; 

But I may frame a simple lay. 

Nor Slander blight the blushing wreath 

Yes, I will touch the string to thee. 
Nor fear its wlldness will offend; 

For well I know that thou wilt be, 
What thou hast ever been — a friend. 
14 



166 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

There are, whose cold and idle gaze 

Would freeze the current where it flows ; 

But Gratitude shall guard the fount, 
And Faith shall light it as it flows. 

Then tell me, may 1 dare to twine, 
While o'er my simple harp I bend, 

This little offering for thee, 

For thee, my father, and my friend? 



ON SEEING 

A PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN MARY, 

PAINTED SEVERAL CENTURIES SINCE. 

A FRAGMENT. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

Roll back, thou tide of time, and tell 

Of book, of rosary, and bell ; 

Of cloistered nun, with brow of gloom. 

Immured within her living tomb; 

Of monks, of saints, and vesper-song, 

Borne gently by the breeze along ; 

Of deep-toned organ's pealing swell ; 

Of Ave Marie, and funeral knell ; 

Of midnight taper, dim and small, 

Just glimmering through the high-arched hall; 

Of gloomy cell, of penance lone. 

Which can for darkest deeds atone 

Roll back, and lift the veil of night. 

For I would view the anchorite. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 167 

Yes, there he sits, so sad, so pale. 

Shuddering at Superstition's tale ; 

Crossing his breast with meagre hand, 

While saints and priests, a motley band, 

Arrayed before him, urge their claim 

To heal in the Redeemer's name ; 

To mount the saintly ladder, (made 

By every monk, of every grade. 

From portly abbot, fat and fair. 

To yon lean starveling, shivering there,) 

And mounting thus, to usher in 

The soul, thus ransomed from its sin. 

And tell me, hapless bigot, why, 

For what, for whom did Jesus die, 

If pyramids of saints must rise 

To form a passage to the skies ? 

And think you man can wipe away 

With fast and penance, day by day, 

One single sin, too dark to fade 

Before a bleeding Saviour's shade? 

O ye of little faith, beware ! 

For neither shrift, nor saint, nor pray^t", 

Would aught avail ye without Him, 

Beside whom saints themselves grow dirti. 

Roll back, thou tide of time, and raise 

The faded forms of other days ! 

Yon time-worn picture, darkly grand, 

The work of some forgotten hand. 

Will teach thee half thy mazy way. 

While Fancy's watch-fires dimly play. 

Roll back, thou tide of time, and tell 

Of secret charm, of holy spell, 

Of Superstition's midnight rite. 

Of wild Devotion's seraph flight, 

Of Melancholy's tearful eye. 

Of the sad votaress' frequent sigh, 



168 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

That trembling from her bosom rose, 
Divided 'twixt her Saviour's woes 
And some warm image lingering there, 
Which, half-repulsed by midnight prayer, 
Still, like an outcast child, will creep 
Where sweetly it was wont to sleep. 
And mingle its unhallowed sigh 
With cloister-prayer and rosary; 
Then tell the pale, deluded one 
Her vows are breathed to God alone ; 
Those vows, which tremulously rise, 
Love's last, love's sweetest sacrifice. 



\_Unfinished.] 



AMERICAN POETRY. 

A FRAGMENT. 
(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

Must every shore ring boldly to the voice 

Of sweet poetic harmony, save this? 

Rouse thee, America ! for shame ! for shame 1 

Gather thy infant bands, and rise to join 
Thy glimmering taper to the holy flame: — 

Such honour, if no other, may be thine. 
Shall Gallia's children sing beneath the yoke? 

Shall Ireland's harpstrings thrill, though all unstrung? 
And must America, her bondage broke, 

Oppression's blood-stains from her garment wrung, 
Must she be silent? — who may then rejoice? 

If she be tuneless, Harmony, farewell ! 
Oh ! shame, America ! wild freedom's voice 

Echoes, " shame on thee," from her wild-wood dell. 
Shall conquered Greece still sing her glories past? 
Shall humbled Italy in ruins smile? 
And canst thou then [Unfinished.'] 



POETICAL REMAINS. 169 

HEADACHE. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.; 

Headache ! thou bane to Pleasure's fairy spell, 
Thou fiend, thou foe to joy, I know thee well ! 
Beneath thy lash I've writhed for many an hour, — 
1 hate thee, for I 've known, and dread thy power. 

Even the heathen gods were nnade to feel 
The aching tornnents which thy hand can deal ; 
And Jove, the ideal king of heaven and earth. 
Owned thy dread power, which called stern Wisdom 
forth. 

Would'st thou thus ever bless each aching head. 
And bid Minerva make the brain her bed. 
Blessings might then be taught to rise from woe. 
And Wisdom spring from every throbbing brow. 

But always the reverse to me, unkind, 
Folly for ever dogs thee close behind ; 
And from this burning brow, her cap and bell, 
For ever jingle Wisdom's funeral knell. 



TO A STAR. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

Thou brightly-glittering star of even, 
Thou gem upon the brow of Heaven 
Oh ! were this fluttering spirit free, 
How quick 't would spread its wings to thee. 
14* 



170 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

How calmly, brightly dost thou shine, 
Like the pure lamp in Virtue's shrine! 
Sure the fair world. which thou may'st boast 
Was never ransomed, never lost. 

There, beings pure as Heaven's own air, 
Their hopes, their joys together share; 
While hovering angels touch the string. 
And seraphs spread the sheltering wing. 

There cloudless days and brilliant nights, 
Illumed by Heaven's refulgent lights ; 
There seasons, years, unnoticed roll, 
And unregretted by the soul. 

Thou little sparkling star of even. 
Thou gem upon an azure Heaven, 
How swiftly will I soar to thee, 
When this imprisoned soul is free ! 



SONG OF VICTORY, 

FOR THE DEATH OF GOLIATH, 
(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

Strike with joy the wild harp's string, 
God, O Israel, is your King ! 
We have slain our deadliest foe, 
David's arm hath laid him low. 

Saul hath oft his thousands slain. 
His trophies have bedecked the plain ; 
3ut David's tens of thousands lie 
n slaughtered millions, mounted high. 



POETICAL REMAINS. ,171 

Sound the trumpet — strike the string, 
Loud let the song of victory ring ; 
Wreathe with glory David's brow^, 
He hath laid Goliath low. 

Mark him on yon crimson plain, 
He is conquered — he is slain ; 
He who lately rose so high. 
Scoffed at man, and braved the sky. 

Strike with joy the wild harp's string, 
God, O Israel, is your king ! 
We have slain our deadliest foe, 
David's arm hath laid him low. 



THE INDIAN CHIEF AND CONCONAY. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

The Indian Chieftain is far away. 

Through the forest his footsteps fly. 
But his heart is behind him with Conconay, 
He thinks of his love in the bloody fray, 

When the storm of war is high. 

But little he thinks of the bloody foe. 

Who is bearing that love away; 
And little he thinks of her bosom's woe, 
And little he thinks of the burning brow 

Of his lovely Conconay. 

They tore her away from her friends, from her home. 

They tore her away from her Chief. 
Through the wild-wood, when weary, they forced 
her to roam, 



172 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Or to dash the h'ght oar in the river's white foam. 
While her bosom o'erflowed with grief. 

But there came a foot, 't was swift, 't was h'ght, 
'T was the brother of him she loved ; 

His heart was kind, and his eye was bright ; 

He paused not by day, and he slept not by night, 
While through the wild forest he roved. 

'T was Lightfoot, the generous, 't was Lightfoot the 
young, 
And he loved the sweet Conconay; 
But his bosom to honour and virtue was strung, 
And the chords of his heart should to breaking be 
wrung, 
Ere love should gain o'er him the sway. 

Far, far from her stern foes he bore her away. 

And sought his own forest once more ; 
But sad was the heart of the young Conconay, 
Her bosom recoiled when she strove to be gay, 
And was even more drear than before. 

'T is evening, and weary, and faint, and weak 

Is the beautiful Conconay; 
She could wander no farther, she strove to speak, 
But lifeless she sunk upon Lightfoot's neck. 

And seemed breathing her soul away. 

The young warrior raised his eyes to Heaven, 

He turned them towards the west ; 
For one moment a ray of light was given. 
Like lightning, which through the cloud hath riven 

But to strike at the fated breast. 



POETICAL REMAINS. ITt 

For there was his brother returning from far, 

O'er his shoulder his scalps were slung ; 
For he had been victor annid the war, 
His plume had gleamed like the polar star, 
And on him had the victory hung. 

The Chieftain paused in his swift career, 

For he knew his Conconay; 
He saw the maid his heart held dear, 
On his brother's breast, in the forest drear, 

From her home so far away. 

He bent his bow, the arrow flew. 

It was aimed at Lightfoot's breast; 
And it pierced a heart, as warm and true 
As ever a mortal bosom knew, 

Or in mortal garb was dressed. 

He turned to his love — from her brilliant eye 

The cloud was passing away; 
She let fall a tear — she breathed a sigh — 
She turned towards Lightfoot — she uttered a cry, 

For weltering in gore he lay. 

Her heart was filled with horror and woe, 

When she gazed on the forjii of her Chief; 
'Twas his loved hand that had bent the bow, 
*Twas he who had laid her preserver low; 
And she yielded her soul to grief 

And 'twas said, that ere time had healed the wound 

In the breast of the mourning maid. 
That a pillar was reared on the fatal ground. 
And ivy the snow-white monument crowned 

With its dark and jealous shade. 



174 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



THE MOTHER'S LAMENT 

FOR HER INFANT. 
(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

Cold is his brow, and the dew of the evening 

Hangs damp o'er that form I so fondly caressed; 

Dim is that eye, which once sparkled with gladness. 
Hushed are the griefs of my infant to rest. 

Cahiily he lies on a bosom far colder 

Than that which once pillowed his health-blushing 
cheek ; 

Calmly he '11 rest there, and silently moulder, 
No grief to disturb him, no sigh to awake. 

Dread king of the grave, Oh ! return me my child ! 

Unfetter his heart from the cold chains of death ! 
Monarch of terrors, so gloomy, so silent, 

Loose the adamant clasp of thy cold icy wreath I 

Where is my infant? the storms may descend. 
The snows of the winter may cover his liead ; 

The wing of the wind o'er his low couch may bend, 
And the frosts of the night sparkle bright o'er 
the dead. 

Where is my infant ? the damp ground is cold, 
Too cold for those features so laughing and light; 

Methinks, these fond arms should encircle his form. 
And shield off the tempest which wanders at night. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 175 

This fond bosom loved him, ah ! >oved him too dearly, 
And the frail idol fell, while I bent to adore ; 

All its beauty has faded, and broken before me 
Is the god my heart ventured to vi^orship before. 

'T is just, and I bow 'neath the mandate of Heaven, 
Thy will, oh, my Father ! for ever be done ! 

Bless God, O my soul, for the chastisement given, 
Henceforth will I worship my Saviour alone ! 



ON THE MOTTO OF A SEAL. 

"IF I LOSE THEE, I AM LOST." 
ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

Wafted o'er a treacherous sea 
Far from home, and far from thee; 
Between the Heaven and ocean tossed, 
"If I lose thee, I am lost." 

When the polar star is beaming 
O'er the dark-browed billows gleaming, 
I think of thee and dangers crossed, 
For, "If I lose thee, I am lost. 

When the lighthouse fire is blazing, 
High towards Heaven its red crest raising, 
I think of thee, while onward tossed, 
For. " If I lose thee, I am lost." 



176 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



MORNING. 

(Written in her sixteenth year.) 

I come in the breath of the wakened breeze, 
I kiss the flowers, and I bend the trees ; 
And I shake the dew, which hath fallen by night, 
From its throne, on the lily's pure bosom of white. 
Awake thee, when bright from my couch in the sky, 
I beam o'er the mountains, and come from on high; 
When my gay purple banners ai'e waving afar; 
When my herald, gray dawn, hath extinguished each 

star; 
When I smile on the woodlands, and bend o'er the lake, 
Then awake thee, O maiden, I bid thee awake ! 
Thou mayst slumber when all the wide arches of 

Heaven 
Glitter bright with the beautiful fire of even; 
When the moon walks in glory, and looks from on high. 
O'er the clouds floating far through the clear azure sky, 
Drifting on like the beautiful vessels of Heaven, 
To their far-away harbour, all silently driven. 
Bearing on, in their bosoms, the children of light, 
Who have fled from this dark world of sorrow and 

night ; 
When the lake lies in calmness and darkness, save 

where 
The bright ripple curls, 'neath the smile of a star; 
When all is in silence and solitude here. 
Then sleep, maiden, sleep ! without sorrow or fear ! 
But when I steal silently over the lake, 
Awake thee then, maiden, awake ! oh, awake ! 



POETICAL REMAINS. 177 

SHAKSPEARE. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) . 

Shakspeare! "with all thy fiiults, (and few have more,) 
I love thee still," and still will con thee o'er. 
Heaven, in compassion to man's erring heart, 
Gave thee of virtue — then, of vice a part, 
Lest we, in wonder here, should bow before thee. 
Break God's commandment, worship, and adore thee : 
But admiration now, and sorrow join ; 
His works we reverence, while we pity thine. 



TO A FRIEND, 

WHOM I HAD NOT SEEN SINCE MY CHILDHOOD. 
(Written in her sixteenth year.) 

And thou hast marked, in childhood's hour, 
The fearless boundings of my breast. 

When, fresh as Summer's opening flower, 
I freely frolicked, and was blessed. 

Oh! say, was not this eye more bright? 

Were not these lips more wont to smile ? 
Methinks that then my heart was light, 

And I a fearless, joyous child. 

And thou didst mark me gay and wild, 
My careless, reckless laugh of mirth ; 

The simple pleasures of a child, 
The holidav of man on earth. 
15 



178 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Then thou hast seen me in that hour, 
When every nerve of Yife was new, 

When pleasures fanned youth's infant flower, 
And Hope her witcheries round it threw. 

That hour is fading, it has fled, 
And I am left in darkness now; 

A wand'rer towards a lou'ly bed, 
The grave, that home of all below. 



THE FEAR OF MADNESS. 

r 

WRITTEN WHILE CONFINED TO HER BED, DURING HER 
LAST ILLNESS. 

There is a something which I dread, 

It is a dark, a fearful thing ; 
It steals along with withering tread. 

Or sweeps on wild destruction's wing. 

That thought comes o'er me in the hour 
Of grief, of sickness, or of sadness ; 

'T is not the dread of death — 'tis more, 
It is the dread of madness. 

Oh ! may these throbbing pulses pause, 

Forgetful of their feverish course; 
May this hot brain, which burning, glows 

With all a fiery whirlpool's force. 

Be cold, and motionless, and still, 
A tenant of its lowly bed. 

But let not dark delirium steal — 

# * #•# * * # ^. 

[^Unfinished."] 

(This was the last piece she ever wrote.) 



POETICAL REMAINS. 179 



MARITORNE, 

OR THE 

PIRATE OP MEXICO. 

(Written in her seventeenth year.) 

On Barritaria's brow the watch-fires glow. 

Their beacons beaming on the gulf below, 

As if to dare some death-devoted hand 

To quench in blood the boldly blazing brand ; 

Some Orlean herald arm'd with threatening high 

To daunt the Pirate-chieftain's haughty eye, 

To bid him bend to tame and vulgar law, 

And bow to painted things with trembling awe. 

Such herald well may come, — but woe betide 

The self-devoted messenger of pride ! 

Such herald well may come, but far and near 

The name of Maritorne is joined with fear; 

His vessels proudly ride the Gulf at will, 

Whilst he is Chief of Barritaria's Isle. 

The iron hand of power is raised in vain. 

Whilst Maritorne is master of the main. 

'Tis his to sacrifice —'tis his to spare — 

He moves in silence, and is everywhere. 

His victims must with pompous boldness bleed, 

But if he pities, who may tell the deed ? 

'Tis done in secret, that no eye may mark 

One thought more gentle, or one act less dark. 

And he, the governor of yon fair land, 

Whose tongue speaks freedom, but whose guilty hand 



180 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Grasps the half-loosened manacles again, 

And adds unseen fresh links to slavery's chain, 

Hated full deeply, dreaded and abhorr'd, 

The Pirate-chief, the haughty island lord. 

And cause enough, deep hfdden in his breast, 

Had he, the moody leader of the west, 

To hate that fearful man, who stood alone 

Feared, dreaded, and detested, tho' unknown ; 

That cause was smother'd or burst forth to light, 

Wreath'd in the incense of a patriot's right, 

To drive the bold intruder from the shore, 

Where war and bloodshed must appear no more; 

But deep within his heart the crater glow'd 

From whence this gilded stream of lava flow'd ; 

'Twas wounded pride, which, writhing inly, bled, 

And called for vengeance on the offender's head ; 

For Maritorne, with bold unbending brow. 

Had scorn'd his power — that were enough ; — but lo! 

There, on the very threshold of his h(Mr)e, 

There had the traitor Pirate dar'd to come. 

And thence had borne his own, his only child. 

Mate all unfit for Maritorne the wild ; , 

And when the maiden curs'd him in her breast 

Those curses came not o'er him — he was blest — 

For but to gaze upon her, and to feel 

That she whom he ador'd was near him still, 

Was bliss ! was Heav'n itself! and he whose eye 

Bent not to ausrht of dull mortality 

Shrunk with a tremulous delight whene'er 

The voice of Laura rose upon his ear; 

That voice had pow'r to quell the fiend within, 

Whose touch had turn'd his very soul to sin. 

That fiend was vengeance; — e'en his virtues bow*d 

Before the altar which to vengeance glow'd. 

His virtues I yes ; for even fiends may boast 

A shadow of the glory they have lost, — 



POETICAL REMAINS. 181 

But oh ! like them, his crimes were dark and deep, 

For vengeance was awake, — can vengeance sleep? 

Yes ; sleep, as tigers sleep, with half-^ihut eye, 

Crouching to spring upon the passer-by, 

With parch'd tongue cleaving to his blackenM cell, 

Stiff'ning with thirst, and jaws which hunger fell 

Hath sharply whetted, quiv'ring to devour 

The reckless wretch abandon'd to his pow'r. 

Yes: thus may vengeance sleep in breast like his, 

Where thoughts of wild revenge are thoucjhts of bliss. 

Thus may it sleep, like iEtna's burning breast. 

To burst in thunders when 'tis dreaded least; 

For his had been the joyless, thankless part, 

Of one who warm'd a viper at his heart, 

And clasp'd the venom'd reptile to his breast 

Till wounded by the ingrate he caress'd. 

Such had been Maritorne's accursed fate, 

Ere he became the harden'd child of hate. 

At first his breast was torn with anguish wild. 

He curs'd himself, then bitterly revil'd 

The world, as hollow-hearted, false, unkind; 

He curs'd himself, and doubly curs'd mankind ; 

And then his heart grew callous, and like steel 

Grasp'd in his hand, had equal power to feel. 

'T was like yon mountain snow-crest, chill tho* bright, 

Cold to the touch, but dazzling to the sight. 

Till when the hour of darkness gathers, then 

The sunbeam fades, the ice grows dim again. 

He had a friend, one on whom fancy's eye 

Had deeply, rashly stamp'd fidelity: 

Traitor had better seem'd — worm — viper — aught — 

The vilest, veriest, wretch e'er named in thought, 

For he was sin's own son, and all that e'er 

Angels above may hate or mortals fear. 

There was a fascination in his eye 

W iose who felt, migh seek in vain to fly. 



182 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

There was blasting glance of mockery there, 
There was a calnn, contennptuous, biting sneer 
For ever on his lip, which nfiade men fear. 
And fearing shun him, as a bird will shun 
A gilded bait, though glittering in the sun; 
But still the mask of friendship he could wear. 
The smile, the warm professions all were there; 
Let him who trusts to these alone — beware! 
A lurking devil may be crouching there. 
Shame on mankind that they will stoop to use 
Wiles which the imps of darkness would refuse. 
Henceforth let friendship drop her robes of light, 
And following desolation's blasting flight 



There paced the Pirate Chief with giant stride, 

Deep chorus keeping to the Mexic tide ; 

His sable plumes were hov'ring o'er his brow. 

As if to hide the depth of thought below. 

He paus'd — 't was but the dashing of the spray — 

Again ! — 't was but the night-watch on his way. 

He only mutter'd, gnashed his teeth and smil'd. 

Fit mirth were that, so ghastly and so wild. 

To grace a Pirate Chieftain's scornful lip, 

'Twas like St. Helmo's night-fire o'er the deep. 

The beacon blaze is burning on the shore, 

But burns it not more dimly than before? 

Perchance the drowsy sentinel is sleeping. 

His weary vigils negligently keeping. 

So thought the Chief, but still his wary eye 

Was fix'd intently between earth and sky. 

As if its quick keen glance would light the flame, 

And blast the sleeper with remorse and shame. 

He starts — suspicion flashes on his brain — 

He grasps his dagger — by St. Mark — again! 



POETICAL REMAINS. 183 

His bugle brightly glittered on his breast ; 
His lip'the gilded bauble gently press'd — 
One breath, one sigh, and rock and hill and sea, 
Will echo back the warlike minstrelsy. 
The figure which had slowly pass'd between 
Himself and yonder blaze, sank where 'twas se6n, 
As tho' the earth had gaped with sudden yawn, 
And drank both fire and form in silence down; 
The beacon was extinguish'd, rock and tree 
And beetling cliff', and wildly foaming sea 
Were hid in darkness, for the deep red light 
Which faintly sketched them on the brow of night 
Was dim, as was the moon's pale tremulous glow. 
For tempest-clouds were rallying round her brow; 



****** 

The sound of a footstep is on the shore. 

It dies away in the surge's roar; 

It is heard again as the angry spray 

Rolls back and foams its shame awav; 

And shrill and clear was the call of alarm, 

'T was like the breaking of spell or charm ; 

It scream'd o'er the dark wave, it rose to the hill, 

And the answering echoes re-echoed it still. 

A rushing sound as of coming waves, 

A glittering band as if burst from their graves. 

Are the answers which wake at the bidding clear 

Of him, the Lord of the Isle of Fear. 

But scarce had the summons in silence died. 

When the foot which had waked the tumult wide. 

Was pressing the sand where it yielding gave 

To the lightest tread as 'twas washed by the wave; 

By the side of the Pirate, with outstretch'd hand, 

The bold intruder look'd round on the band ; 



184 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

But none saw the face of that being save he ; 
In wonder he gazed — in his eye you might see 
Surprise, and shame, and a fiend-like gleam. 
Which vvhisper'd of more than fear might dream ; 
And is it for this — for a woman like thee? 
He angrily mutter'd and turn'd to the sea — 
And is it for this I have sounded the call 
Whose notes may never unanswer'd fall ; 
Whose lowest tone is the knell of more 
Than can crowd at once upon Hell's broad shore 1 
And is it for this, I must idly stand 
To trace the wave with my sword on the strand? 
Speak I — tell me — or now by the blood on its blade, 
I will give to that pale cheek a deadlier shade. 
The beacon ! the beacon — she turn'd to the spot, 
And pointed the chief where the light was not; 
The murmur ran thro' the waiting crowd, 
It was loud at first but it grew more loud. 
Till the Beacon, the Beacon — rang on to the sky, 
But its light was extinguish'd, no blaze met the eye; 
Thus much for the moment — thy honour is clear. 
If it suffers then look for thy recompense here ; 
And she threw back her mantle and gave to the light 
Which glared from the torches all flamingly bright 
A form which e'en Maritorne mark'd not unmoved, 
But t' was one which he did not, nor ever had loved 
There are spies who are waiting in ambush for thee; 
I mark'd out the cavern — 'twas near to the sea; 
They are few, they are bold, they are guided by one 
Who has sworn ere the dawn of another day's sun 
To lead thee in triumph, unwounded, unharm'd, 
To yonder proud city all chain'd and unarm'd ; 
This swears he, by all that is sacred to do, 
1 heard it, and hasten'd thus breathless to you. 
For pardon 1 sue not, O punish my crime ! 
Here, here is my bosom, and now is the time! — 



POETICAL REMAINS. 185 

The last moment beheld me imploring for breath, 
Now 't is not worth asking — I sue but for death 
The ocean was roaring too loudly to hear 
The words she was speaking, the Chief bent his ear; 
His dark plume was resting half fearfully there, 
Upon the white brow of the beautiful Clare; 
As a being all guilty and trembling would rest 
Self-accused, self-condemn'd in the land of the blest. 
And he, its wild wearer, how heard he the tale ? 
His eye flash'd the darker, his lip grew more pale ; 
But when it was finish'd and Clara knelt down, 
Where, where was his anger, and where was his 

frown 1 
On her forehead he printed a passionate kiss — 
Oh Clara forgive me — remember not this. 
But forget not that thou, and thou only, shalt know 
The cause of my madness, my guilt, and my woe. 
If I fall, thou wilt read it in letters of blood 
'Neath the stone, near the rock, where the beacon- 

hght glow'd ; 
If I live — and he hastily bowed himself — then — 
The Fiend and the pirate were masters again. . 



* 



A light is on the waters, and the dip 

Of distant oars is heard from steep to steep; 

The hum of voices float upon the air. 

Soft, yet distinct, tho' distant, full and clear. 

Come they to Barritaria's Isle as midnight foes ? 

'T is well ! — the world but roughly with them goes. 

Come they to Barritaria's Isle to join 

Their traitor arms, proud Maritorne, with thine ? 



186 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Oh, better had they never left yon shore, 

To which they may return again no more. 

Fools ! — think they he is bleeding in a strife 

Where every drop writes guilt upon his life 

For gold, for fame, for power, for aught on earth 

Which vulgar minds might think were richly worth 

A life of bloodshed and dishonour ? No ! 

They read not right, who read yon pirate so ; 

The plash of troubled waters, and the sound 

Of moving vessels grating o'er the ground, 

The quick low hum of voices, the faint gush 

Of light waves gurgling as with sudden rush 

They feebly kiss'd the bark, then sunk away, 

As half-repenting them such welcome gay. 

Were caught perchance, by some lone fisher's ear, 

Who plied his line, or net at midnight here; 

Perhaps he started from his drowsy mood. 

And toss'd his bait still further down the flood ; 

But be that as it may, 't was heard no more, 

And list'ning silence hover'd o'er the shore. 

And yonder fire the battle sign is beaming. 

Far o'er the dusky waters redly streaming, 

The shadow of the Pirate-ship lies there. 

Its banners feebly dancing in the air ; 

Its broad sails veerinar idly to and fro, 

Now glitt'ring 'neath the full moon's silver glow, 

Now black'ning in the shade of night's dull frown, 

'Twas like its chief, in silence and alone. 

Gazing upon the shadow which it cast 

O'er ev'ry rippling wave which gently pass'd. 

And such had been his joyless, gloomy lot, 

Forgetting all mankind, by all forgot. 

Save that accursed o-ne whose blasting eye 

Was glaring on him, — 't was in vain to fly 

"' 'lile vengeance whisper'd curses in his ear, 

d thought, the demon thouf^ht receiv'd them there. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 18t 

But it had ever been his lot to throw 

O'er those who pass'd him, shades of gloom and woe ; 

His love for Laura had been deeply curs'd, 

Hatred's black phial o'er his brow had burst ; 

He felt himself detested, and he knew 

That she whom he adored abhorr'd him too. 

But oh the hapless, the ill-fated one, 

She who could love him for himself alone, 

Love him, with all his crimes upon his head, 

Love, when the crowd with detestation fled ; — 

A deep dark shade, a wild, a with'ring blast 

Fell o'er her destiny ; the die was cast — 

She was a wretched one, a sweet flower faded. 

Whose wand'ring tendrils round the night-shade 

braided. 
Clung to its baleful breast — hung drooping there, 
Self-sacrificed, it drank the poisoned air 

# # * * * 



And with'rins: *****# 



[Unfinished.'] 



AMERICA. 

(Written in her seventeenth year.) 

And this was once the realm of nature, where 

Wild as the wind, tho' exquisitely fair, 

She breath'd the mountain breeze, or bow'd to kiss 

The dimpling waters with unbounded bliss. 

Here in this Paradise of earth, where first 

Wild mountain Liberty began to burst, 

Once Nature's temple rose in simple grace. 

The hill her throne, the world her dwelling-place. 

And where are now her lakes so still and Tone, 

Her thousand streams with bending shrubs o'ergrown? 



188 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Where her dark cat'racts tumbling from on high, 
With rainbow arch aspiring to the sky? 
Her tow'ring pines with fadeless wreaths entwin'd, 
Her waving alders streaming to the wind ? 
Nor these alone, — her own, — her fav'rite child, 
All fire ; all feeling ; man untaught and wild ; 
Where can the lost, lone son of nature stray? 
For art's high car is rolling on its way; 
A wand'rer of the world, he flies to drown 
The thoughts of days gone by and pleasures flown, 
In the deep draught, whose dregs are death and wo^ 
With slavery's iron chain conceal'd below. 
Once thro' the tangled wood, with noiseless tread 
And throbbing heart, the lurking warrior sped, 
Aim'd his sure weapon, won the prize, and turn'd 
While his high heart with wild ambition burn'd, 
With song and war-whoop to his native tree, 
There on its bark to carve the victory. 
His all of learning did that act comprise, 
But still in nature's volume doubly wise. 

The wayward stream which once with idle bound, 
Whirl'd on resistless in its foaming round. 
Now curb'd by art flows on, a wat'ry chain 
Linking the snow-capp'd mountains to the main. 
Where once the alder in luxuriance grew, 
Or the tall pine its towering branches threw 
Abroad to Heaven, with dark and haughty brow. 
There mark the realms of plenty smiling now; 
There the full sheaf of Ceres richly glows, 
And Plenty's fountain blesses as it flows ; 
And man, a brute when left to wander wild, 
A reckless creature, nature's lawless child, 
What boundless streams of knowledge rolling now. 
From the full hand of art around him flow ! 
Improvement strides the surge, while from afar, 
Learning rolls onward in her silver car; 



POETICAL REMAINS. 189 

Freedom unfurls her banner o'er his head, 
While peace sleeps sweetly on her native bed. 

The muse arises from the wild wood glen, 
And chants her sweet and hallow'd song again, 
As in those halcyon days, which bards have sung, 
When hope was blushing, and when life was young. 
Thus shall she rise, and thus her sons shall rear 
Her sacred temple here, and only here, 
While Percival, her lov'd and chosen priest, 
For ever blessing, tho' himself unblest, 
Shall fan the fire that blazes at her shrine, 
And charm the ear with numbers half divine. 



LINES ADDRESSED TO A COUSIN. 

She gave me a flow'ret, — and oh ! it was sweet ! 
'T was a pea, in full bloom, with its dark crimson 
leaf, 
And I said in my heart, this shall be thy retreat ! 
'T is one " sacred to Friendship" — a stranger to 
grief. 

In my bosom I placed it, — 't is withered and gone ! 

All its freshness, its beauty, its fragrance had fled! 
And in sorrow I sigh'd, — am I thus left alone ? 

Is the gift which I cherish'd quite faded and dead? 

It has w^ither'd ! but she who presented it blooms, 

Still fresh and unfading, in memory here! 
And through Hfe shall here flourish, 'mid danger and 
storms, 
As sweet as the flower, though more lasting and 
fair ! 
16 



190 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



MODESTY. 

. (Written in her sixteenth year.) 

There is a sweet, tho' humble flower, 
Which grows in nature's wildest bed ; 

It blossoms in the lonely bower, 
But withers 'neath the gazer's tread. 

'Tis rear'd alone, far, far away 

From the wild noxious weeds of death. 

Around its brow the sunbeams play, 
The evening dew-drop is its wreath. 

'T is Modesty ; 't is nature's child ; 

The loveliest, sweetest, meekest flower 
That ever blossom'd in the wild. 

Or trembled 'neath the evening shower. 

'T is Modesty ; so pure, so fair. 
That woman's witch'ries lovelier grow, 

When that sweet flower is blooming there, 
The brightest beauty of her brow. 



A VIEW OF DEATH. 

When bending o'er the brink of life. 
My trembling soul shall stand, 

Waiting to pass death's awful flood. 
Great God ! at thy command • 



POETICAL REMAINS. 191 

When weeping friends surround my bed, 

To close nay sightless eyes, 
When shattered by the weight of years 

This broken body lies; 

When every long-lov'd scene of life 

Stands ready to depart. 
When the last sigh which shakes this frame 

Shall rend this bursting heart ; 

Oh thou great source of joy supreme, 

Whose arm alone can save, 
Dispel the darkness that surrounds 

The entrance to the grave. 

Lay thy supporting gentle hand 

Beneath my sinking head, 
And with a ray of love divine, 

Illume my dying bed. 

Leaning on thy dear faithful breast, 

I would resign my breath. 
And in thy loved embraces lose 

The bitterness of death. 



ROB ROY'S REPLY TO FRANCIS OSBAL- 
DISTONE. 

The heather I trod while breathing on earth. 
Must bloom o'er my grave in the land of my birth ; 
My warm heart would shrink like the fern in the 

frost, 
If the tops of my hills to my dim eye were iOst. 



192 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



TO A LADY 

RECOVERING FROM SICKNESS. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

There is. a charm in the pallid cheek ; 
A charm which the tongue can never speak, 
When the hand of sickness has wither'd awhile, 
The rose which had bloom'd in the rays of a smile. 

There is a charm in the heavy eye, 
When the tear of sorrow is passing by, 
Like a summer shower o'er yon vault of blue. 
Or the violet trembling 'neath drops of dew. 

It spreads around a shade as light 
As daylight blending with the night; 
Or 't is like the tints of an evening sky, 
And soft as the breathing of sorrow's sigh. 



THE VISION. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

'Twas evening — all was calm and silent, save 
The low hoarse dashing of the distant wave ; 
The whip-poor-will had clos'd his pensive lay, 
Which sweetly mourned the sun's declining ray ; 
Tired of a world surcharged with pain and woe. 
Weary of heartless forms and all below, 



POETICAL REMAINS. 193 

Broken each tie, bereft of every friend, 
Whose sympathy might consolation lend, 
And musing on each vain and earthly toy, 
Walk'd the once gay and still brave Oleroy. 
Thus lost in thought, unconsciously he stray'd, 
When a dark forest wild around him laid. 
In vain he tried the beaten path to gain, 
He sought it earnestly, but sought in vain ; 
At length o'ercome, he sunk upon the ground, 
Where the dark ivy twined its branches round ; 
Sudden there rose upon his wond'ring ear. 
Notes which e'en ano^els might delio^hted hear. 
Now low they murmur, now majestic rise, 
As though " some spirit banished from the skies" 
Had there repair'dto tune the mournful lay, 
" And chase the sorrows of his soul away." 
They ceas'd — when lo ! a brilliant dazzling light 
Illumed the wood and chas'd the shades of night; 
He raised his head, there stood near Oleroy, 
The beauteous figui"e of a smiling boy; 
Across his shoulder hung an ivory horn, 
With jewels glittering like the rays of morn ; 
In his white hand he held the tuneful lyre. 
And in his eyes there beam'd a heavenly fire ; 
Approaching Oleroy, he smiling cried. 

You hate the world and all its charms deride, 
You hate the world and all it doth contain. 
Condemn each joy, and call each pleasure pain; 
Then come, he sweetly cried, come follow me, 
Another world, thy sorrowing eyes shall see. 

No sooner said than swift the smiling boy 
Led from the bower the wond'ring Oleroy. 
Beneath a tree three sylph-like forms recline. 
Each form was beauteous, and each face benign ; 
16* 



194 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Beside them stood a chariot dazzling bright, 
Yoked with two beauteous swans of purest white; 
They mount the chariot, and ascend on high. 
They bend the lash, on winged winds they fly, 
Above the spacious globe they stretch their flight. 
That globe seem'd now but as a cloud of night. 
Swift towards the moon the white swans bend their 

wayj 
And a new world its treasures doth display. 
They halt ; before them rocks and hills are spread, 
And birds, and beasts, which at their footsteps fled. 
Another moon emits a softer ray. 
And other moon-beams on the waters play : 
They wander on, and reach a darksome cave 
Against whose side loud roars the dashing wave : 
These words upon its rugged front appear, 
" What in your world is lost is treasured here." 
They enter ; — round upon the floor are strewn. 
The ivory sceptre, and the glittering crown ; 
Unnumbered hopes there flutter'd on the wing. 
There were the lays discarded lovers sing ; 
There fame her trumpet blew, long, loud, and clear, 
Worlds tremble as the deaf'ning notes they hear; 
There brooded riches o'er his lifeless heap. 
There were the tears which misery's children weep. 
There were posthumous alms, and misspent time 
Lost in a jingling mass of foolish rhyme. 
There was the conscience of the miser ; — there 
The tears of love, — the pity of the fair ; 
There, pointing, cried the sylph-like smiling boy. 
There 's the content which fled you, Oleroy ! 
Regain it if you can; — then far away. 
And reach your world before the dawn of day. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 195 



ON SEEING AT A CONCERT, THE PUBLIC 
PERFORMANCE OF A FEMALE DWARF. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

Helpless, unprotected, weary, 

Toss'd upon the world's wide sea, 

Borne from those I love most dearly, 
Say — dost thou not feel for me? 

Who that hath shrunk 'neath nature's frown 
Would court false fortune's fickle smile 1 

Oh, who would wander thus alone. 
Reckless alike of care or toil? 

Who would, for fading pleasure, brave 
The sea of troubles, dark and deep ? 

For lo ! the gems which deck the wave 
Vanish, and " leave the wretch to weep." 

'T was not for fortune's smile of light, 
Which beams but to destroy for ever ; 

'T was not for pleasure's bubbles bright, 
Which dazzle still, deluding ever : 

Oft have I falter'd when alone 

Before the crowd I sung my lay, 
But ah, a father's feeble moan 

Rung in my ears, I dared not stay. 

Oh, I have borne pride's scornful look. 

And burning taunts from slander's tongue ; 

Yet more of malice I could brook, 

E'en though my heart with grief was wrung. 



196 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Adieu! a long — a last adieu — 

Once more I launch upon life's sea ; 

But still shall memory turn to you, 
For, stranger, you have felt for me. 



ON SEEING A YOUNG LADY AT HER 
DEVOTIONS. 

(Written in her seventeenth year.) 

She knelt, and her dark blue eye was rais'd, 

A sacred fire in its bright beam blaz'd, 

And it spread o'er her cold pale cheek a light 

So pure, so sacred, so clear and so bright. 

That Parian marble, tho' glittering fair 

'Neath the moon's pale beam, or the sun's broad glare, 

Were far less sweet, tho' more dazzlingly bright, 

Than that cold cheek array 'd in its halo of light. 

Oh ! I love not the dark rosy hue of the sky 

When the bright blush of morn mantles deeply and 

high, 
But my fond soul adores the pure author of light, 
The more when she looks on the broad brow of night; 
On myriads of stars glitt'ring far tliro' the sky. 
Like the bright eyes of saints looking down from on 

high 
From their garden of Paradise, blooming in Heaven, 
On the scene sleeping sweet 'neath the calm smile 

of even. 

I love not the cheek which speaks slumber unbroken. 
That heart hath ne'er sigh'd o'er hope's fast fading 
token ; 



POETICAL REMAINS. 197 

That bosom ne'er throbbed with half-fearful delight 
When it thought on its home in the regions of light, 
Or trembled and wept as with fancy's dear eye 
It gaz'd on the beautiful gates of the sky, 
And the angels which watch at their portals of light. 
All peaceful, all sacred, all pure, and all bright : 
But I love that pale cheek as it bends in devotion, 
Like a star sinking down on the breast of the ocean. 



ALONZO AND IMANEL. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

As he spoke, he beheld on the sea-beaten strand 

A form, 'twas so airy, so light, 
He could almost have sworn by the faith of his land 
That an angel was wand'ring 'mid rocks and thro* 
sand, 

'Neath the moon-beam so fitfully bright. 

He paus'd, as the bittern scream'd loud o'er his head, 

One moment he paus'd on the shore. 
To mark the wild wave as it dash'd from its bed. 
Tossing high the white spray from its foam-spangled 
head. 

With a fitful and deafening roar. 

He caught the wild notes of a song, on the wind, 

Ere the tempest-god bore them away. 
And they told of a tortured and desperate mind. 
To despair's dark shadows for ever resign'd, 
Of a heart, once* hope-lighted and gay. 



198 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

The bright moon was hid in the breast of the stormy 

And darkness "and terror drew round, 
Yet still he could mark her light fanciful form, 
As she roam'd round the wild rocks, devoid of alarm, 

Tho' the fiend of tRe whirlwind frown'd. 

Oh tell me, he cried, what spirit so light, 

So beautiful e'en in despair. 
Is wand'ring alone 'mid the storm of the night, 
When to guide her no star in the heaven is bfight,. 

No gleam save the lightning's red glare ! 

'T is young Imanel, answered his guide with a sigh,. 

The rich, the belov'd and the guy, 
Who is doom'd from her friends and her country to fly. 
For she lov'd, and she wedded Alonzo the spy, 

Who has left her and fled far away. 

Alonzo the spy ! — and he darted away 

With the speed of a shooting star, 
Nor heeded the call of his guide to stay. 
But toward the poor lone one he bounded away, 

She had fled to the sea-beach afar. 

One glance of the forked lightning's glare 
Play'd bright round the fair one's face, 
And it beam'd on Alonzo, for he was there, 
And it beam'd on his bride, on his Imanel dear, 
Clasp'd at length in his joyful embrace. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 199 

TO MARGARET'S EYE. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

Oh ! I have seen the blush of morn, 
And I have seen the evening sky ; 

But ah ! they faded when I gaz'd 

On the bright heaven of Margaret's eye. 

I 've seen the Queen of evening ride 
Majestic, 'mid the clouds on high ; 

But e'en Diana in her pride 

Was dim, near Margaret's brilliant eye. 

I 've seen the azure vault of heaven, 
I 've seen the star-bespangled sky ; 

But oh ! I would the whole have given 
For one sweet glance from Margaret's eye. 

I 've seen the dew upon the rose. 
It trembled 'neath the zephyr's sigh ; 

But oh ! the tear which nature shed 
Was dim near that in Margaret's eye. 



TO A YOUNG LADY, 

WHOSE MOTHER WAS INSANE FROM HER BIRTH. 
(Written in her seventeenth year.) 

And thou hast never, never known 
A mother's love, a mother's care ! 

Hast wept, and sigh'd, and smil'd alone, 
Unblest by e'en a mother's prayer. 



200 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Oh, if sad sorrow's blighting hand 
Hath e'er an arrow, it is this ; 

To feel that phrenzy's burning brand 
Hath wip'd away a nnother's kiss ; 

To nnark the gulf, the starless wave, 
Which rolls between thee and her love, 

To feel that better were a grave, 
A .grave beneath — a home above; 

Than thus that she should linger on, 
In dreamless, sunless solitude; 

Like some bright ruin'd shrine, where one 
All loveliness and truth hath stood. 

And he, her love, her life, her light, 
How burst the storm o'er him ! 

Oh, darker than Egyptian night, 
'T was one wild troubled dream ! 

To gaze upon that eye, whose beam 
Was love, and life, and light. 

To mark its wild and wandering gleam 
Which dazzles but to blight; 

To turn in anguish and despair 

From those wild notes of sadness, 

And feel that there was darkness there, 
The midnight mist of madness ; 

To start beneath the thrilling swell 
Of notes still sweet, tho' wasted. 

To mark the idol lov'd too well, 
In all its beauty blasted ; 

Oh ! it were better far to kneel. 
In darkly brooding anguish, 

Upon the graves of those we love, 
Than thus to see them languish. 



POETICAL REMAINS, 201 

A SONG. 
Tunef Mrs, Rohinsori's Farewell, 

(Written in her thirteenth year.) 

Tell me not of joys departed, 

Or of childhood's happy hour! 
When unconsciously I sported, 

Fresh as morning's dewy flower ! 

Tell me not of fair hopes blasted, 

Or of unrequited love ! 
Tell me not of fortune wasted, 

Or the web which Fate hath wove I 

One fond wish I long have cherish'd, 
I have twined it round my heart ! 

While all other hopes have perished, 
I with that could never part. 

On life's troubled, stormy ocean 
That bright star still shone serene ! 

To that star, my heart's devotion 
Rose, at morning, and at e'en ! 

And the hope that led me onward. 

Like a beacon shining bright. 
Was — that when this form had moulder'd 

I might wake to realms of light ! 

Wake to bliss — that changes never! 

Wake no more to hope or fear! 
Wake to joys that bloom for ever! 

Wither'd by no sigh, no tear! 

17 



202 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

A SONG. 

, (Written in her fifteenth year.) 

Life is but a troubled ocean, 
Hope a meteor, love a flower 

Which blossoms in the morning beam, 
And withers with the evening hour. 

Ambition is a dizzy height. 

And glory, but a lightning gleam ; 

Fame is a bubble, dazzling bright, 

Which fairest shines in fortune's beam. 

When clouds and darkness veil the skies, 
And sorrow's blast blows loud and chill, 

Friendship shall like a rainbow rise. 
And softly whisper — peace, be still. 



TWILIGHT. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

How sweet the hour when daylight blends 

With the pensive shadows on evening's breast; 

And dear to the heart is the pleasure it lends, 
'T is Hke the departure of saints to their rest. 

Oh, 'tis sweet, Saranac, on thy loved banks to stray, 
To watch the last day-beam dance light on thy 
wave. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 203 

To mark the white skiff as it skims o'er the bay, 
Or heedlessly bounds o'er the warrior's grave. 

Oh, 'tis sweet to a heart unentangled and light, 
When with hope's brilliant prospects the fancy is 
blest, 

To pause 'mid its day-dreams so witchingly bright, 
And mark the last sunbeams, while sinking to rest. 



ON THE DEATH OF QUEEN CAROLINE. 

(Written in her twelfth year.) 

Star of England ! Brunswick's pride 1 

Thou hast suffer'd, droop'd, and died ! 

Adversity, with piercing eye, 

Bade all her arrows round thee fly ; 

She marked thee from thy cradle-bed, 

And plaited thorns around thy head ! — 

As the moon, whom sable clouds 

Now brightly shows — now darkly shrouds — 

So envy, with a serpent's eye, 

And slander's tongue of blackest dye. 

On thy pure name aspersions cast. 

And triumph'd o'er thy fame at last ! 

But each dark tale of guilt and shame 

Shall darker fly to whence it came ! 

A stranger in a forefgn land, 

Oppress'd beneath a tyrant's hand, 

She drank the bitter cup of woe. 

And read Fate's black'ning volume through ! 

The last, the bitterest drop was drank, 

The volume closed — and all was blank ! 



a04 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

ON THE 

DEATH OF THE BEAUTIFUL MRS. ***** 

I saw her when life's tide was high, 

When youth was hov'ring o'er her brow, 

When joy was dancing in her eye, 

And her cheek blush'd hope's crimson glow. 

I saw her 'mid a fairy throng. 
She seem'd the gayest of the gay ; 

I saw her lightly glide along, 

'Neath beauty's smile, and pleasure's lay. 

I saw her in her bridal robe, 

The blush of joy was mounting high ; 

I mark'd her bosom's heaving throb, 
I mark'd her dark and downcast eye. 

I saw her when a mother's love, 
Ask'd at her hand a mother's care ; 

She look'd an angel from above, 
Hov'ring round a cherub fair. 

I saw her not till cold and pale. 

She slumber'd on death's icy arm; 
The rose had faded on, her cheek, 

Her lip had lost its power to charm. 

That eye was dim which brightly shone ; 

That brow was cold, that heaVt was still 
The witch'ries of that form had flown 

The hfeless clav had ceas'd to feel. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 206 

I saw her wedded to the grave ; 

Her bridal robes were weeds of death ; 
And o'er her pale, cold brow, was hung 

The damp sepulchral icy wreath. 



THE WHITE MAID OF THE ROCK. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

Loud 'gainst the rocks the wild spray is dashing, 
Its snowy white foam o'er the waves rudely splash- 
ing; 
The woods echo round to the bittern's shrill scream. 
As he dips his black wing in the wave of the stream; 
Now mournful and sad the low murmuring breeze 
Sighs lonely and dismal through hollow oak trees. 
The owl loudly hoots, while his lonely abode 
Serves to shelter the snake and the poisonous toad ; 
Lo! the black thunder-cloud is spread over the skies, 
And the swift-winged lightning at intervals flies. 
The streamlet looks dark, and the spray wilder breaks, 
And the alder leaf dank, with its silver drops shakes ; 
This dell and these rocks, this lone alder and stream, 
With the dew-drops which dance in the moon's silver 

beam. 
Are sacred to beings ethereal and light, 
Who hold their dark orgies alone and at night. 
Wild, and more wild, dashed the waves of the stream, 
The White Maid of the rock gave a shrill piercing 

scream ; 
Down headlong she plunged 'neath the dark rolling 
wave, 

And rising, thus chanted a dirge to the brave. 

17* 



206 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

"The raven croaks loud from her nest in the rock,. 
The night-owl's shrill hooting resounds from the oak; 
Behold the retreat where brave Avenel is laid, 
Uncoffin'd, except by his own Scottish plaid ! 
Long since has my girdle diminished to naught, 
And the great house of Avenel low has been brought; 
The star now burns dimly which once brightly shone, 
And proud Avenel's glory for ever has flown. 
As I sail'd and my white garments caught in the 

brake, 
'Neath the oak, whose huge branches extend o'er the 

lake, 
' Woe to thee ! woe to thee ! Maid of the Rock,' 
Cried the night-raven who builds in the oak; 
' Woe to thee ! guardian spirit of Avenel ! 
Where are thy holly-bush, streamlet and dell ? 
No longer thou sittest to watch and to weep, 
Near the abbey's lone walls, and its turrets so steep! 
Woe to thee ! woe to thee ! Maid of the rock/ 
Cried the night-raven who builds in the oak ! 
Then farewell, great Av'nel, thy proud race is run ! 
The girdle has vanish'd — my task is now done." 
Then her long flowing tresses around her she drew, 
And her form 'neath the wave of the dark streamlet 

threw. 



THE WEE FLOWER OF THE HEATHER. 

(Written in her fourteenth year.) 

Thou pretty wee flower, humble thing, 
Thou brightest jewel of the heath, 

Which waves at zephyr's lightest wing, 
And trembles at the softest breath; 



POETICAL REMAINS. 207 

Thou lovely bud of Scotia's land, 
Thou pretty fragrant hurnie gem, 

By whisp'ring breezes thou art fann'd. 
And greenest leaves entwine thy stem. 

No raging tempest beats thee dov^^n. 
Or finds thee in thy safe retreat ; • 

By no rough wint'ry winds thou'rt blown, 
Safe seated at the dark rock's feet. 



TO MY DEAR MOTHER IN SICKNESS. 

Hang not thy harp upon the willow. 
Mourn not a brighter, happier day. 

But touch the chord, and life's wild billow 
Will shrinking foam its shame away. 

Then strike the chord and raise the strain 

Which brightens that dark clouded brow; 
Oh ! beam one sunshine smile again. 
And I '11 forgive thy sadness now. 

Tho' darkness, gloom, and doubt surround thee, 
Thy bark, tho' frail, shall safely ride ; 

The storm and whirlwind may rage round thee. 
But thou wilt all their wrath abide. 

Hang not thy harp upon the willow 

Which weeps o'er every passing wave ; 

Tho' life is but a restless pillow. 

There 's calm and peace beyond the grave 



2^ LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

AN ACROSTIC. 

(Written in her eleventh year.) 

THE MOON. 

Lo! yonder rides the empress of the night! 
Unveil'd she casts around her silver light ; 
Cease not, fair orb, thy slow majestic march, 
Resume again thy seat in yon blue arch. 
E'en noiv, as weary of the tedious way, 
Thy head on ocean's bosom thou dost lay ; 
In his blue waves thou hid'st thy shining face, 
And gloomy darkness takes its vacant place. 

THE SUN. 

. [in continuation.] 

Darting his rays the sun now glorious rides, 
And from his path fell darkness quick divides ; 
Vapour dissolves and shrinks at his approach. 
It dares not on his blazing path encroach ; 
Down droops the flow'ret, — and his burning ray 
Scorches the workmen o'er the new-mown hay. 
Oh ! lamp of Heav'n, pursue thy glorious course, 
Nor till gray twilight, aught abate thy force. 



HABAKKUK III, 6. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

When Cushan was mourning in solitude drear. 
When the curtains of Midian trembled with fear, 



POETICAL REMAINS. 209 

On the wings of salvation thy chariot did fly 
Thou didst stride the wide whirlwind and come from 
on high. 

Earth shook, and before thee the mountains did bow; 
The voice of the deep thunder'd loud from below ; 
Thy arrows glanced bright as they shot thro' the air, 
And far gleam'd the light of thy glittering spear; 
The bright orb of day paus'd in wonder on high, 
And the lamp of the night stood still in the sky. 



ON READING A FRAGMENT CALLED THE 
FLOWER OF THE FOREST. 

(Written in her fourteenth year.) 

Sing on, sweetest songster the woodland can boast ; 
Sing on, for it charms, tho' it sorrows my breast; 
The strains, tho' so mournful, shall never be lost, 
Till this throbbing bosom has murmur'd to rest. 

The sweet Flower of the Forest on memory's page 
Shall bloom undecaying while life lingers near, 
Unhurt by the storms which around it shall rage^ 
By sorrow's sigh fann'd, and bedew'd by a tear. 



ZANTE. 

(Written in her seventeenth year.) 

She stood alone, 't was in that hour of thought, 
When days gone by, with fading fancies fraught 



210 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Steal o'er the soul, and bear it back awhile, 

Too sad, too heavy, or to weep or smile 

O'er all life's sad variety of woe, 

Which fades the cheek, and stamps upon the brow 

The deep dark traces of its passage there, 

In all the clouded majesty of care. 

That hour was twilight; and the shade of night, 

Which shuts the world and wickedness from sight, 

Was walking o'er the waters, while its train 

Of glittering millions danced along the main. 

And Zante, that fairy island fading fast, 

Seem'd first but faintly shadow'd, till at last 

Tower, minaret, and turret, dimm'd by night. 

Shone darkly grand, beneath Heav'n's silvery light. 

And where was she, the lone one, for the sky 
Had blush'd, then faded slowly to her eye — 
Had deepen'd into darkness, till at last 
Night's deep, broad pinion had before her pass'd; 
And still she linger'd there, as noting not 
The lonely breathlessness of that sad spot; 
As heeding not the hour, the dreary sky. 
Or aught that lay beneath her moveless eye. 

She was a being form'd to love, and blest 
With lavish Nature's richest loveliness. 
Oh ! I have often seen, in fancy's eye, ! 

Beings too bright for dull mortality. 1 

I 've seen them in the visions of the night, 
I 've faintl)'^ seen them, when enough of light 
And dim distinctness gave them to my gaze. 
As forms of other worlds, or brighter days. 

Such was lanthe, though perhaps less bright, 
Less clearly bright, for mystery and night 
Hung o'er her — she e'en loveHer seem'd, 
More calm, more happy, when dim twilight gleam'd 
Athwart the wave, than when the rude bright sun, 
As though in mock'ry, o'er her sad brow shone. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 211 

There was a temple, which had stood, where then 
lanthe stood, and old and learned men 
Mused o'er its ruins, marking here and there 
Some porch, some altar, or some fountain, where 
In other days, the towers of faith were raised, 
Where victims bled, or sacred censers blazed ; 
There stood lanthe, leaning on a shrine 
Which rose half mournfull}^ from 'neath the vine, 
Which as in seeming mock'ry had o'ergrown 
And twin'd its tendrils round its breast of stone ; 
Around the ruin'd columns, shaft and step. 
In undistinguish'd masses mould'ring slept, 
And little dreaming of the years gone by, 
Ere tyrant Time had hurl'd therti from on high. 
The moon emerging from the cloud more bright 
The marble surface glitter d in its light ; 
lanthe mark'd it — tears will sometimes steal. 
From hearts which have perchance long ceas'd to 

feel — 
She wept, and whether that cold trembling gleam 
Which shone upon the column, where the beam 
Fell on its brow, brought to her bleeding breast 
Those gusts of sorrow, grief, despair, distress, 
Or what it was I know not — but she wept 
O'er the wide ruin which around her slept ; 
Then as if scorninsr * * * * 






^Unfinished.'] 



212 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

THE YELLOW FEVER. 

(Written in her sixteenth year.) 

The sky is pure, the clouds are light, 

The moonbeams glitter cold and bright; 

O'er the wide landscape breathes no sigh ; 

The sea reflects the star-gemm'd sk^y, 

And every beam of Heav'n's broad brow 

Glows brightly on the world below. 

But ah ! the wing of death is spread ; 

I hear the midnight murd'rers tread ; — 

I hear the Plague that walks at night, 

I mark its pestilential blight; 

I feel its hot and with'ring breath, 

It is the messenger of death ! — 

And can a scene so pure and fair 

Slumber beneath a baleful air? 

And can the stealing form of death 

Here wither with its blighting breath ? 

Yes ; and the slumb'rer feels its power 

At midnight's dark and silent hour; 

He feels the wild fire thro' his brain; 

He wakes; his frame is rack'd with pain; 

His eye half closed ; his lip is dark ; 

The sword of death hath done his work; 

That sallow cheek, that fever'd lip. 

That eye which burns but cannot sleep. 

That black parch'd tongue, that raging brain, 

All mark the monarch's baleful reign ! 

Oh ! for one pure, one balmy breath, 
To cool the sufferer's brow in death ; 



POETICAL REMAINS. 2ia 



Oh ! for one wand'ring breeze of Heav'n ; 
Oh that one moment's rest were giv'n ! 
*T is past ; — and hush'd the victim's prayer ; 
The spirit was — but is not there ! 



KINDAR BURIAL SERVICE, 

VERSIFIED. 

We commend our brother to thee, oh earth ! 
To thee he returns, from thee was his birth ! 
Of thee was he form'd, he was nourish'd by thee; 
Take the body, oh earth ! the spirit is free. 

Oh air ! he once breath'd thee, thro' thee he survived, 
And in thee, and with thee, his pure spirit Hv'd ; 
That spirit hath fled, and we yield him to thee ; 
His ashes be spread, Hke his soul, far and free. 

Oh fire ! we commit his dear reliques to thee, 
Thou emblem of purity, spotless and free ; 
May his soul, like thy flames, bright and burning arise, 
To its mansion of bliss, in the star-spangled skies. 

Oh water ! receive him ; without thy kind aid 

He had parch'd 'neath the sunbeams or mourn'd m 

the shade ; 
Then take of his body the share which is thine, 
For the spirit hath fled from its mouldering shrine. 

18 



214 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



THE GRAVE. 

There is a spot so still and dreary, 
It is a pillow to the weary ; 
It is so solemn and so lone, 
That grief forgets to heave a groan. 

There life's storms can enter never ; 
There 'tis dark and lonely ever; 
The mourner there shall seek repose, 
And there the wanderer's journey close. 



RUINS OF PALMYRA. 

(Written in her sixteenth year.) 

Palmyra, where art thou, all dreary and lone? 

The breath of thy fame, like the night-wind, hath 

flown ; 
O'er thy temples, thy minarets, towers and halls 
The dark veil of oblivion silently falls. 

The sands of the desert sweep by thee in pride, 
They curl round thy brow, like the foam of the tide. 
And soon, like the mountain stream's wild-rolHng 

wave. 
Will rush o'er, and wrap thee at once in thy grave. 

Oh, where are the footsteps which once gaily flew 
O'er pavements, where now weep the foxglove and 

yew ? 
Oh where are the voices which once gaily sung. 
While the lofty-brow'd domes with melody rung? 



POETICAL REMAINS. 215 

They are silent; — and naught breaks the chaos 

of death ; 
Not a being now treads o'er the ivy's dull wreath, 
Save the raging hyena, whose terrible cry 
Echoes lo.ud thro' the halls and the palaces high. 

Thou art fallen, Palmyra ! and never to rise. 

Thou " queen of the east, thou bright child of the 

skies !" 
Thou art lonely ; the desert around thee is wide, 
Then haste to its arms, nor remember thy pride. 

Thou 'rt forgotten, Palmyra ! return thee to earth ; 
And great be thy fall, as was stately thy birth ; 
With grandeur then bow 'neath the pinion of time, 
And sink, not in splendour, but sadly subUme. 



THE WIDE WORLD IS DREAR. 

(Written in her sixteenth year.) 

Oh say not the wide world is lonely and dreary ! 

Oh say not that life is a wilderness waste ! 
There 's ever some comfort in store for the weary, 

And there's ever some hope for the sorrowful breast. 

There are often sweet dreams which will steal o'er 
the soul, 
Beguiling the mourner to smile through a tear. 
That when waking the dew-drops of mem'ry may 
fall. 
And blot out for ever, the wide world is drear. 



216 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

There is hope for the lost, for the lone one's relief, 
Which will beam o'er his pathway of danger and 
fear; 
There is pleasure's wild throb, and the calm "joy of 
grief," 
Oh then say not the wide world is lonely and drear! 

There are fears that are anxious, yet sweet to the 
breast. 

Some feelings, which language ne'er told to the ear, 
Which return on the heart, and there lingering rest. 

Soft whispering, this world is not lonely and drear. 

'T is true, that the dreams of the evening will fade. 
When reason's broad sunbeam shines calmly and 
clear ; 

Still fancy, sweet fancy, will smile o'er the shade, 
And say that the world is not lonely and drear. 

Oh then mourn not that life is a wilderness waste ! 

That each hope is illusive, each prospect is drear, 
But remember that man, undeserving, is blest, 

And rewarded with smiles for the fall of a tear. 



FAREWELL TO MISS E. B. 

(Written in her sixteenth year.) 

Farewell, and whenever calm solitude's hour. 
Shall silently spread its broad wings o'er your bawer. 
Oh ! then gaze on yon planet, yon watch-fire divine, 
And believe that my soul is there mingling with 
thine. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 217 

When the dark brow of evening is beaming with 

stars, 
And yon crest of light clouds is the turban she wears, 
When she walks forth in grandeur, the queen of the 

night. 
Oh ! then think that my spirit looks on with delight. 

O'er the ocean of life our frail vessels are bounding, 
And danger and death our dark pathway surrounding; 
Destruction's bright meteors are dancing before, 
And behind us the winds of adversity roar. 

Oh ! then come, let us light friendship's lamp on the 

wave. 
If we 're lost, it will shed its pure light o'er the grave, 
Or 't will guide to the haven of Heaven at last. 
And beam on when the voice of the trumpet hath 

past. 



THE ARMY OF ISRAEL AT THE FOOT OF 
MOUNT SINAI. 

Their spears glittered bright in the beams of the sun ; 
Their banners waved far, and their high helmets 

shone ; 
And their dark plumes were toss'd on the breast of 

the breeze. 
But the war-trumpet slumbered the slumber of peace. 

He came in his glory, he came in his might, 
His chariot the cloud, and his sceptre the light ; 
The sound of his coming was heard from afar. 
Like the roar of a nation when rushing to war. 

18* 



.218 LUCRETIA MARIij DAVIDSON. 

*Twas the great God of Israel, riding on high» 
Whose footstool is earth, and whose throne is the sky; 
He stood in his glory, unseen and alone, 
And with letters of fire traced the tablets of stone. 

The eagle may soar to the sun in his might, 
And the eye of the warrior flash fierce in the fight; 
But say, who may look upon God the Most High? 
Oh, Israel ! turn back from his glory, or die. 

The sun in its splendour, the fire in its might. 
Which devours and withers, and wastes from the 

sight. 
Is dim to the glory which beams from his eye — 
Then, Israel, turn back — Oh I return, or ye die. 



THE GARDEN OF GETHSEMANE. 

Gethsemane ! there 's holy blood 
Upon thy green and waving brow ; 

Gethsemane ! a God hath stood, 
And o'er thy branches bended low ! 

There, drops of agony have hung 
Mingled with blood upon his brow; 

For sin his bosom there was wrung, 
And there it bJed for human woe. 

There, in the darkest hour of night, 
Alone he watched, alone he prayed; 

Didst thou not tremble at the sight ? 
A God reviled I — a God betrayed 1 



POETICAL REMAINS. 219 

Gethsemane ! so dark a scene 

Ne*er blotted the wide book of time I 

Oblivion's veil can never screen 
So dark a deed, so black a crime! 



THE TEMPEST GOD. 

Hark ! 't is the wheels of his wide rolling car, 
They traverse the heavens and come from afar; 
Sublime and majestic the dark cloud he rides, 
The wing of the whirlwind he fearlessly strides, 
The glance of his eye is the lightning's broad flame, 
And the caverns re-echo his terrible name. 

In the folds of his pinions, the wild whirlwinds sleep, 
At his bidding they rush o'er the foam of the deep, 
He speaks, and in whispers they murmur to rest, 
And calmly they sink on the folds of his breast; 
His seat is the mountain top's loftiest height ; 
He reigns there in darkness, the king of the night. 



TO A DEPARTING FRIEND. 

Farewell, and may some angel guide, 
Some viewless spirit hover o'er thee; 

Who, let or weal or woe betide, 

Will still unchanging move before thee. 



220 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

A hallow'd light shall burn at night, 
When sorrow's wave rolls drearily, 

And o'er thy way a cloud by day 
Shall cast its shadow cheerily. 

Thy bark of pleasure o'er life's smooth sea 

Shall gallantly glide along ; 
Pray'rs and blessings thy breezes shall be, 

And hope be thy parting song.- 

Go then ; I have given the spirits charge 
To watch o'er thee now and for ever ; 

To smooth life's waters, and guide thy barge 
Where tempest shall toss it never. 



TO MAMMA. 



Thy love inspires the Story Teller's tongue. 
To tales of hearts with disappointment wrung-, 
Thy love inspires ; — fresh flows the copious stream, 
And what's not truCt let fruitful fancy dream. 

The Story Teller. 



THE PARTING OF DECOURCY AND 
WILHELMINE. 

(Written in her fourteenth year.) 



1. Lo! enthron'd on golden clouds. 
Sinks the monarch of the day; 
Now yon hill his glory shrouds. 
And his brilliance fades away. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 221 

2. But as it fled, one ling'ring beam 

Play'd o'er yon spire, which points on high ; 
It cast one bright, one transient gleam, 
Then hast'ned from the deep'ning sky 

3. Lo! the red tipp'd clouds remain 

But to tell of glories past; 
Mark them gathering o'er the plain, 
Mark them fade away at last. 

4. The lake is calm, the breeze is still. 

Nor dares to whisper o'er a leaf; 
And nothing save the murm'ring rill, 
Can give the vacant ear relief. 

5. Around yon hawthorn in the vale, 

White garments float like evening mist 
'Tis Wilhelmine, and cold and pale 
A simple marble stone she kiss'd. 

6. She knelt her by a lowly tomb. 

And wreath'd its urn anew with flowers ; 
She taught the white rose there to bloom, 
And water'd it with sorrow's showers. 

7. Like raven's wing, her glossy hair 

In ringlets floated on the gale. 
Or hung upon a brow as fair 
As snow-curl crested in the vale. 

8. And her dark eye which rolls so wild. 

Once brightly sparkled with hope's light, 
For Wilhelmine was pleasure's child. 

When fortune's smiles shone sweetly bright. 



222 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

9. Decourcy lov'd — the morn was clear, 

And fancy promis'd bliss; 
For now the happy hour was near, 
Which made the maiden his. 

10. And Wilhelmine sat smiling sweet 

Beneath the spreading tree, 
Her nimble foot was quick to meet, 
Her glancing eye to see. 

11. Decourcy came upon his steed, 

His brow and cheek were pale; 
Speak — speak, Decourcy, cried the maid« 
'Tis sure a dreadful tale. 

12. My love, my Wilhelmine, cried he. 

Be calm and fear thee not; 
In battle I will think on thee, 
And oh, forget me not. 

13. Adieu ! he clasp'd her to his breast. 

And kiss'd the trickling tear 
Which 'neath her half-clos'd eyelids prest 
And lingering glist'ned there. 

14. He gazed upon that death-like face. 

So beautiful before ; 
He gazed upon that shrine of grace, 
And dared to gaze no more. 

15. He trembled, pressed his burning brow, 

And clos'd his aching eyes; 
His limbs refuse their office now, 
The maid before him lies. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 223 

16. But hark ! the trumpet's warlike sound 

Jychoes from hill to vale; 
H'! caught the maiden from the ground, 
And kiss'd her forehead pale. 

17. iVhy should Decourcy linger there, 

When the bugle bids him speed? 
One long last look of calm despair. 
And he springs upon his steed; 

% He strikes the sting of his bloody spur 
In his foaming courser's side, 
And he gallops on where the wave of war 
Rolls on with its bursting tide. 

19. Whose was the sword that flashed so bright, 

Like the flaming brand of heaven? 
And whose the plume, that from morn till night 
Was a star to the hopeless given ? 

20. 'T was thine, Decourcy ! that terrible sword 

Hath finished its work of death. 
And the hand which raised it on high is lowered 
To the damp green earth beneath. 

21. The sun went down, and its parting ray 

Smiled sorrow across the earth. 
The light breeze moaned — then died away, 
And the stars rose up in mirth. 

22. And the timid moon looked down with a smile 

On the blood-stained battie ground, 
And the g«-oans of the wounded roSe up the while 
With a sad heart-rending sound, 



224 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

23. While the spectre-form of some grief-worn man. 

Steals slowly and silently by, 
Each corpse to note — each face to scan, 
For his friend on that field doth lie. 

24. But whose is the figure dimly seen [ 

By the trembling moon-beam's light? 
'T is the form of the weeping Welhelmine, 
And she kneels by the slaughtered knight. 

25. Weep not for the dead, for he died 'mid the din, 

And the rapturous shouts of strife, 
And the bright sword hath ushered his soul within 
The portals of future life. 

26. Weep not for the dead ! who would not die 

As that gallant soldier died I 
With a field of glory whereon to lie, 
And his foeman dead beside. 

27. A year passed by, and a simple tomb 

Rose up 'neath a willow tree, 
'T was decked with flowers in vernal bloom 
As fresh as flowers could be ; 

28. And oft as the twilight's dusky gleam 

O'er the scene was gently stealing, 
The form of the sorrowful maid was seen 
By the grave of her lover kneeling. 

29. But wild is the glance of her dove-like eye, 

And her cheek, oh how pale and fair! 
And the mingled smile, and the deep drawn sigh. 
Show that reason's no longer there. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 225 

30. Another year passed, and another grave 
'Neath the willow tree is seen ; 
By the side of her lover, Decourcy the brave, 
Lay the corpse of Wilhelmine. 



LOVE, JOY, AND PLEASURE. 

AN ALLEGORY. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

* 

The night was calm, the sky serene. 

The sea a mirror display'd. 
On its bosom the twinkling stars were seen, 
The moon-crested waves were dancing between, 

And smiling through evening's shade. 

On that placid sea Pleasure's bark was riding, 
Love and Joy were its guides through the deep, 

And their hearts beat high, while on fortune con-^ 
fiding. 

They smiPd at the forms that were gloomily striding. 
O'er the brow of the wave-wash'd steep. 

Those forms were Malice, and Scorn, and Hate, 

And they flitted around so dark. 
That they seem'd like the gloomy sisters of Fate, 
Intent on some dreary, some deadly debate. 

To ruin the beautiful bark. 
19 



226 , LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

But the eye of Joy was raised on high, 

She gaz'd at the moon's pale lamp, 
The tear of Pleasure shone bright in her eye, 
And she saw not the clouds which were passing by. 

Death's messengers dark and damp. 

And Pleasure was gazing with childish glee 

At the beacon's trembling gleam, 
Or watching the shade of her wings in the sea, 
With their colours as varied and fickle as she. 

As fleeting as Folly's dream. 

And Love was tipping his feathery darts. 

And feeding his flaming torch, 
He was tinging his wings with the blood of hearts, 
He was chaunting low numbers, and smiling by 
starts 

At the flowers *round Hymen's porch. 

Meanwhile the clouds were gathering drear, 

They hung 'round the weeping moon. 
And still the mariners dream'd not of fear. 
Still in Joy's bright eye beam'd the brilliant tear, 
Which sorrow would claim too soon. 

The voice of the tempest-god rolled around. 

The bark towards heaven was toss'd ; 
Then, then the fond dreamers awoke at the sound. 
And Pleasure, the helmsman, in agony found 
That the light-house fire was lost. 

Loud and more loud the billows roar, 

The ocean no more is gay. 
Love dreams of his pinions and arrows no more, 
Joy mourns the hour that she left the shore. 

And Pleasure's bright wings fade away. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 287 

Then Malice sent forth a shadowy bark, 

Which, bounding o'er the wave, 
Came like a meteor's brilliant spark, 
A star of light 'mid the tempest dark, 

A beacon of hope from the grave. 

Joy onward rush'd to the airy skiff 

Which near them gaily drew, 
But ah ! she sank to the arms of Grief, 
For the bark, which promised them sure relief 

Away like lightning flew. 

Then the smile of Scorn and Malice gleam'd 

Across the billow's foam, 
And long and loud fell Hatred scream'd 
With fiend-like joy, as the lightning stream'd 

Around their forms of gloom. 

On, on, they drifted before the gale ; 

Again the signal rose; 
Joy and Pleasure the beacon hail, 
Love's ashy cheek becomes less pale 

As cloarer and brighter it glows. 

'T was Hope who fired the beacon high, 

And she came with her anchor of rest. 
And Faith, who raised towards heaven her eye. 
Spoke peace to the storm of the troubled sky, 
And calm to the weary breast. 

And Charity came with her robe of light, 

And she led the wanderers home, 
She warmed them and wept o'er the woes of the 

night, 
And she welcomed them in with a smile so bright, 

That Pleasure forgot to roam. 



228 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

And she led them to Reh'gion's shrine, 
Where Hope was humbly kneehng, 

And there the tears of Joy did shine . 

With a hght more dazzling, more divine, 
They were mingled with tears of feeling. 

There Love's wild wings shone calmly bright, 

As over the altar he waved them ; 
There Pleasure folded her pinions light, 
And fondly gazed with a sacred delight 
On the scroll which Charity gave them. 



MY LAST FAREWELL TO MY HARP 

And must we part ? yes, part for ever ; 
I'll waken thee again — no, never; 
Silence shall chain thee cold and drear, 
And thou shalt calmly slumber here. 
Unhallowed was the eye that gazed 
Upon the lamp which brightly blazed, 
The lamp which never can expire, 
The undying, wild, poetic fire. 
And Oh ! unhallowed was the tongue 
Which boldly and uncouthly sung ; 
I bless'd the hour when o'er my soul. 
Thy magic numbers gently stole, 
And o'er it threw those heavenly strains, 
Which since have bound my heart in chains; 
Those wild, those witching numbers still 
Will o'er my widow'd bosom steal. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 239 

I blest that hour, but Oh ! my heart, 
Thou and thy Lyre must part ; yes, part ; 
And this shall be my last farewell, 
This my sad bosom's latest knell. 
And here, my harp, we part for ever ; 
Pll waken thee again, Oh! never; 
Silence shall chain thee cold and drear. 
And thou shalt calmly slumber here. 



19 ♦ 



SPECIMENS 



OF 



PROSE COMPOSITION. 



(m 



COLUMBUS. 

• Written in her sixteenth year.) 

What must have been the feelings of Christopher 
Columbus, when, for the first time, he knelt and 
clasped his hands, in gratitude, upon the shores of his 
newly-discovered world? Year after year has rolled 
away ; war, famine, and fire have alternately swept 
the face of that country ; the hand of tyranny hath 
oppressed it; the footstep of the slave hath wearily 
trodden it ; the blood of the slaughtered hath dyed it ; 
the tears of the wretched have bedewed it ; still, even 
at this remote period, every feehng bosom will delight 
to dwell upon this brilliant era in the life of the per- 
severing adventurer. At that moment, his name was 
stamped upon the records of history for ever ; at that 
moment, doubt, fear, and anxiety fled, for his foot had 
pressed upon the threshold of the promised land. 

The bosom of Columbus hat'h long since ceased to 
beat — its hopes, its fears, its projects, sleep, with him, 
the long and dreamless slumber of the grave; but 
while there remains one generous pulsation in the 
human breast, his name and his memory will be held 
sacred. 

When the cold dews of uncertainty stood upon his 
brow ; when he beheld nothing but the wide heavens 
above, the boundless waters beneath and around him ; 
himself and his companions in that little bark, the only 
beings upon the endless world of sky and ocean; 

(233) 



234 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

when he looked back and thought upon his native 
land; when he looked forward, and in vain traversed 
the liquid desert, for some spot upon which to fix the 
aching eye of anxiety; oh! say, amidst all these dan- 
gers, these uncertainties, whence came that high, un- 
bending hope, which still soared onward to the world 
before h'lm'i whence that undying patience, that more 
than mortal courage, which forbade his cheek to blanch 
amid the storm, or his heart to recoil in the dark and 
silent hour of midnight? It was from God — it was 
of God — His Spirit overshadowed the adventurer ! By 
day, an unseen cloud directed him — by night, a bril- 
liant, but invisible column moved before him, gleam- 
ing athwart the boundless waste of waters. The 
winds watched over him, and the waves upheld him, 
for God was with him — the'Vfehirlwind passed over 
his little bark, and left it still riding onward, in safety, 
towards its unknown harbour — for the eye of Him 
w^ho pierces the deep was fixed upon it. 

Columbus had hoped, feared, and had been disap- 
pointed ; he had suffered long and patiently — he had 
strained every faculty, every nerve ; he had pledged 
his v^ry happiness upon the discovery of an unknown 
land ; and what must have been the feelings of his 
soul, when, at length bending over that very land, his 
grateful bosom offered its tribute of praise and thanks- 
giving to the Being who had guarded and guided him 
through death and danger ? He beheld the bitter smile 
of scorn and derision fade before the reality of that 
vision, which had been ridiculed and mocked at; he 
thought upon the thousand obstacles which he had 
surmounted ; he thought upon those who had regarded 
him as a self-devoted enthusiast, a visionary madman, 
and his full heart throbbed in gratitude to Him whose 
Spirit had inspired him, whose voice had sent him 
forth, and whose arm had protected him. 



ALPHONSO. 235 



ALPHONSO IN SEARCH OF LEARNING. 

AN ALLEGORY. 
(Written in her eleventli year ) 

Early one morning Alphonso set out in search of 
Learning. He travelled over barren heaths and over 
rocks, and was often obliged to ford rivers, which 
seemed almost impassable ; at last, completely ex- 
hausted, and at a loss what road to take, he sat down 
desponding by the side of a rapid river. Soon a pas- 
senger approached with whom Alphonso entered into 
conversation, and at length asked him where he was 
going. I am, replied the stranger, seeking Fame, and 
already by her trump has my name been sounded in 
her courts. She has promised to immortalize my 
name; follow me, and you shall richly reap the reward 
of your labour. / also, answered Alphonso, have a 
road to pursue, which leads to Fame, but it is through 
Learning that I must reach her courts, and then shall 
I enjoy the fruits of my toil, in proportion to the 
hardships with which I have acquired it. Can you 
tell me where she can be found ? 

You see, replied the stranger, yonder hills which 
rise one upon the other, as far as the eye extends ; far, 
far beyond themy whose every precipice you have to 
climb. Learning resides. Her temple is pleasant, but 
few there are who gain it ; many, indeed, have gone 
beyond these foremost hills, but stumbling, they have 
been dashed to pieces on the rocks, but still they have 
had the reputation of having reached her temple, and 
their names are recorded in the roll of Fame. Thus 



236 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

saying, the stranger proceeded on his journey, and 
left Alphonso in doubt whether to pursue the danger- 
ous road of which the stranger had warned him, or 
to follow him to more easily acquired fame. 

At last Wisdom came to his assistance, and he re- 
solved not to give up his search after Learning. He 
proceeded therefore, and had reached the foot of the 
hill, when he was met by another person, who inquired 
whither he was going ? I am in pursuit of Learning, 
replied Alphonso. What ! do you intend climbing 
yonder rugged and tiresome hill? I do, answered 
Alphonso. 

Indolence is my companion, said the stranger: I 
found her in yonder valley. I toiled not for her, and 
without toil, I enjoy ease ; on the other hand. Learning 
cannot be obtained without labour ; go with me, and 
you shall enjoy Jife. Alphonso, partly fatigued with 
his long walk, and partly discouraged by the rugged 
appearance of the hill, consented. After walking on 
sometime in a beautiful valley, Alphonso began to dis- 
cover that his new companion was flat and insipid, 
that he had exhausted all his little fund of knowledge 
in the beginning of their journey, and that he now 
scarcely said anything. Thus continuing dissatisfied, 
not with the path, but with the companion he had, 
they entered a beautiful meadow, in which there was 
an arbour, called the arbour of Indolence, and there 
they lay down to rest ; but before Alphonso slept, a 
warning voice sounded in his ear, " awake, for de- 
struction is at hand." He heeded it not, and with 
his senses slept his conscience. 

When they arose to pursue their journey, a tempest 
gathered ; thick clouds were in the heavens, all was 
black. Night's sable mantle was thrown over the 
horizon, and only now and then a flash of lightning, 
attended with a dreadful thunderbolt, showed them 



ALPHONSO. 237 

both the dead waters of oblivion ; near them was the 
path which slides the unhappy deluded mortal down 
to its deep and noisome bed. 

Alphonso's conductor, who had before appeared cer- 
tain of being on safe ground, trembled and turned pale 
when he found himself in the fatal path. Alphonso 
was on the brink ! He receded ; his flesh grew cold, 
his eyeballs glared, and his hair stood on end. Pre- 
sently he heard a low plashing of the dead waters of 
oblivion ; they closed with a sullen roar over the un- 
happy sufferer, and all was silent. This is the end of 
the careless votary of Indolence, thought Alphonso, 
as he turned from the dead waters of the lake. Let 
this be a lesson to me ! 

He stood in deep perplexity some time, not daring 
to turn back, and he knew it would be certain death 
to proceed ; but suddenly the clouds dispersed, the air 
was calm, and all was silent ; he blessed the returning 
light, and with new vigour, passed on his way in search 
of Learning. He was overjoyed, when he found him- 
self out of the fatal vale of Indolence. 

Again he viewed those hills which so discouraged 
him when they met his eye before, but now they ap- 
peared to him with a far different aspect, as he traced 
over them the path to Learning's happy temple. 

He began his journey anew, and as he proceeded, 
the ascent was easier. When he reached the top of 
the hill, a few faint rays of the bright sun of Learning 
warmed his heart, and though faint, it was sufficient 
to kindle the slumbering fire of hope in his bosom. 
After he had reached the valley below, he saw a 
person crossing on the opposite side, with a light step, 
and an open ingenuous countenance. 

Alphonso stopped him, and inquired, why he did 
not ascend the hill before him ? Because, said the 
stranger, " I seek Truth, and she dwells in the simple 
20 



238 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

vale of Innocence ; at her court there is no pomp, but 
there is peace ; she discloses her name to all ; some 
revile her, others say she is of no use to the world, 
that they are always as victorious without her assist- 
ance as with it. Her followers scarce ever suffer 
from the imputations of the vile, when they hold fast 
upon her garments. I can possess Truth and Inno- 
cence without Learning." Here the travellers parted 
— Alphonso to ascend the hill, the stranger to the 
vale of Innocence. 

Without a companion in his solitary journey; with 
no one to assist him on his way ; no one to raise him 
if he stumbled, Alphonso pursued his toilsome course. 
At length, casting his eyes to the top of the hill, he 
perceived standing on its summit a figure stretching 
out one hand to assist him, the other rested on an an- 
chor, and a bright beam played around her brow. 
Alphonso hastened to ascend the hill, and when he 
approached, he clasped the outstretched hand of Hope, 
for that was the name of the fair form, and imprinted 
it with kisses. Hope smiled affectionately upon him, 
and with these encouraging words addressed him : 
" Alphonso ! I come to conduct you to the temple of 
Learning ; you have overcome alone the greatest 
obstacles, you shall now have a conductor." 

As they came to frightful precipices, where un- 
fortunate mortals had been dashed headlong, for daring 
to approach too near its edge, Hope would catch his 
hand and conduct him to safer ground. At last, 
through many difficulties, hazards, and reproaches, 
Alphonso came in sight of the temple of Learning. 
The sun was just sinking, and it illumed the edges of 
the fleecy floating clouds with a golden hue. Its last 
beam played upon the glittering spire of the temple ; 
Alphonso could scarce believe his eyes, They reached 



ALPHONSO. 239 

the threshold. After so many toils, so many dangers, 
he had now acquired the object of his hopes. 

They stood a moment, when the door was opened 
by a grave-looking old man, who heartily welcomed 
them to the temple. As they entered, all was light : 
it burst upon his sight like some enchanted scene, 
where none but setherial beings dwell. Irresistibly 
he cast his eyes up to the nave of the spacious hall, 
and beheld Learning seated upon a throne of gold. 
A bright sun emitted its cheering rays above his head. 
In one hand she held a globe, in the other a pen. 
Books were piled up in great order here, and in an- 
other place they were strewn in wild profusion. Ten 
of her favourite disciples were ranged on either hand, 
the swift-winged Genius with his beloved companion 
Fancy were seated at her right hand, and often did 
Genius cast an approving smile at the mistress of his 
heart and actions ; she who had tamed the wild spirit 
of his temper, and taught it to follow in gentler, softer, 
and sweeter murmurs. 

Hope now conducted Alphonso to the throne of 
Learning. She smiled as he humbly kneeled at her 
footstool, and taking a laurel from the hand of the de- 
lighted and willing Genius, she crowned the brow of 
the elated Alphonso. Fancy for a moment deserted 
the side of Genius and hovered over his laurel-crowned 
brow ; then clapping her wings in delight, she again 
resumed her former station. Learning stretched forth 
her hand to him ; arise, said she, you are destined by 
fate to fill this long vacant seat. Alphonso kissed the 
outstretched hand, and gratefully took his seat at the 
side of Learning, 



240 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



SENSIBILITY. 

In this delicate emotion of the human mind there is 
a mixture of danger and delight ; it may be indulged 
moderately, with pleasure to its possessor, but uncon- 
trolled, it brings in its train a succession of ideal mise- 
ries, and sensations of acute pain or exquisite delight. 

It often causes the heart to shrink with sensitive 
horror from difficulties in the path of life slightly no- 
ticed, or scarcely perceptible to the mind well governed 
by reason, or fortified by principle. Lively sensi- 
bility may be considered as the key-stone of the heart; 
it often unguardedly unlocks the treasures confided to 
its care, and pouring forth the full tide of feeUng, the 
warmest impulses of the soul are wasted upon trifles 
or squandered on objects insignificant to the eye of 
reason, and frequently exposes the feeling heart to 
contempt and ridicule. 

Deep and delicate sensibility, that feeling of the soul 
which shrinks from observation and pours itself forth 
in secret calm retirement, must certainly by its dignity 
and sacred character cause feelings of reverence for 
its possessor. Jesus wept over the grave of his de- 
parted friend, his sensibility was aroused, and he shed 
tears of sorrow over the dark wreck of a once noble 
fabric in the mouldering remnants of mortality before 
him. His prophetic soul gazed upon wide scenes of 
future desolation. He felt for the miseries of mankind ; 
he pitied their folly and wept over the final destruc- 
tion of the human frame, undermined by sin and 
borne down by death. 



THE HOLY WRITINGS. 241 



THE HOLY WRITINGS. 

Through the whole of this sacred volume may be 
traced the finger of a God ! It is overshadowed by 
his arm, and his spirit walks forth in the sublimity of 
his commandments. What are the mad revilings of 
the scoflfer ? They are like burning coals which fall 
back upon the head of him who hurled them, leaving 
the object of his rage uninjured. What are the most 
philosophic works of mankind when placed in com- 
parison with it ? They sink into nothing. What are 
the brilliant shafts of human wit when directed against 
it ? They are as the gilded wing of the butterfly, flut- 
tering feebly against the nervous, the resistless pinion 
of an eagle. What are all the immense magazines 
of learning beside it, but a boundless heap of chaff"? 
Yes ; the vast edifices of human knowledge reared 
by the restless hand of ingenuity, and bedecked with 
all the gaudy trappings of eloquence, crumble into 
dust and fall prostrate in its presence, as did the hea- 
then idol before the ark of the living God ! 

Do we ask eloquence? Where can it be found 
more pure than from the mouth of him whose voice 
of mercy is a murmur, and whose anger speaks in 
wrathful thunders? Do we ask sublimity? The 
eagle in its flight toward heaven is less sublime than 
the hallowed words of its Maker. Do we ask sim- 
plicity ? What is more touchingly so, than the lan- 
guage of the sacred volume ? Do we ask sweetness 
or tenderness ? The breath of summer is less sweet 
than the Almighty's offered mercies. The fabled 
bird which sheds her blood for the nourishment of 
20* 



242 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

her innocent offspring, is cruel in comparison with 
him, who bled, who died, for those who cursed ana 
tortured him. Do we ask grandeur, wildness or 
strength ? Look there ! there upon the law of him 
whose very self is grandeur, whose glance is light- 
ning, and whose arm is strength. 

The hand of the impious and the envious may- 
hurl the dust of derision upon this sacred volume: 
still, it will shine on, brighter and brighter, while time 
shall be ! 



CHARITY. 243 



CHARITY. 

The sacred volume exhorts us to Charity. How 
carefully then should we cherish this kindly feeling, 
this spark from the fountain of life, that it may beam 
forth undimmed, and with its pure and friendly light, 
cast a ray over our many imperfections, in that day 
when all will stand in need of mercy and forbear- 
ance ! 

It is not the bare distribution of alms to the needy 
and suffering beggar, it is not the pompous offerings 
of opulence to the shrinking child of poverty, which 
constitutes true charity ; — no ; it is to be understood 
in a far wider sense ; it is forbearing to join with the 
multitude, when trampling upon a fallen fellow-crea- 
ture. It is the voice of charity which pleads for the 
wretched and the penitent, which raises the prostrate, 
and whispers forgiveness for the past, and hope for 
the future. It is her hand which pours the balm of 
consolation into the lacerated bosom of the returning 
wanderer ; who dares not look back upon the past, 
and whose heart shrinks as it meets the cold and 
averted glances of those, who in the hour of its pride 
had bowed before it. 

We are all liable to err. Let us make the situation 
of the sufTering penitent our own. Where are the 
friends we had fondly fancied ours ? fled, as from the 
breath of pestilence, and we are desolate ; left with 
the arrow of adversity rankling in our bosoms, like 
the stricken deer by the selfish herd, to perish in soli- 
tude and wretchedness. 

There is no heart so hardened and depraved, thai 



244 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

it will not, when the soft voice of charity whispers 
peace and forgiveness, yield like wax beneath the 
hand which stamps it. Then is the moment to im- 
press upon it the sacred precepts of virtue, and to 
place the bright rewards of penitence before it. " Let 
us then do as we would that others should do unto 
us ;" have mercy upon the fallen, and stretch forth 
the hand of charity to the suffering and the penitent. 



REMARKS ON THE IMMORALITY OF 
THE STAGE. 

Why is it that the ear of modesty must be shocked 
by the indelicacy and immorality which obstinately 
clings to the stage, that vehicle of good or evil, that 
splendid engine whose movements may shed a halo 
of brilliancy around it, or leave behind the blackened 
traces of its desolating progress ? 

Can the eye of innocence gaze even upon the mimic 
characters of vice, or the ear of delicacy become 
familiarized to the rude and boisterous, or the more 
dangerously subtle insinuations of depravity, without 
quitting the fascinating scene less fastidious in its feel- 
ings, less sensible to the bold intrusions of barefaced 
wickedness ? No : — though the change be slow and 
almost imperceptible, still it will not be the less certain, 
the fatal poison will creep to the very vitals of virtue, 
and stamp deep stains upon the spotless tablet of inno- 
cence. 

Must then all that is bright and pure be shut out 
from those scenes of fascination, and delight ? Must 
that very purity which should be cherished and guard- 
ed as a sacred deposit, be converted into a chain 



CONTEMPLATION OF THE HEAVENS. 245 

wherewith to shackle the amusements of its possessor? 
Would not the frequent indulgence of this amusement, 
be holding forth a strong temptation to those who are 
but partially fortified in the principles of rectitude to 
overleap the crumbling ill-formed barrier, and plunge 
at once into the boundless ocean of vice and immo- 
rality 1 

Oh why will not authors, those helmsmen in the 
mighty vessel of improvement, dash the countless 
stains from the charts which they are holding to our 
eyes, and transform their blackened pages to pure, 
spotless records of truth and virtue ? Then we should 
no longer mark the blush of offended modesty 
mantling the cheek of sensibility, or the frown of dis- 
approbation clouding the pure brow of refinement 
and morality. The stage would then become the 
guardian and the friend, instead of the fell destroyer 
of all that is pure and virtuous in the human breast. 



CONTEMPLATION OF THE HEAVENS. 

To count the glittering millions of the sky, to mar- 
shal them in bright array before us, to mark the bril- 
liant traces of a Creator's presence, the foot-prints of 
the Deity, is a hallowed and subhme employment of 
the soul ; for being insensibly led onward from gazing 
upon the portals of heaven, the wonderful threshold of 
God's wide pavilion, it dares to lift itself in pure and 
unearthly communion, with the Holy Spirit that in- 
habits there, and to bow in adoration and praise be- 
fore the great I AM. 

To a feeling mind, the heavens unroll a vast vol- 
ume, filled with subjects of wonder, love, and praise. 



246 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Wonder, at the inconceivable nnajesty and goodness 
of the great Creator of so vast, so splendid a system; 
love, for his condescension in deigning to bend his at- 
tention to so insignificant a creature as man, even in 
the meridian of his earthly glory ,* and praise, for his 
unchangeable benevolence, infinite wisdom, and per- 
fection. What hand but that of a God could have 
formed the wide solar system above us? what voice but 
that of Him who created them, could bid the starry 
millions move on for thousands of ages in one unbro- 
ken and unceasing march? The lights of heaven are 
bright and beautiful, still they are but feeble beams 
from the everlasting fountain of splendour, or wander- 
ing sparks of Heaven's dazzling glory. Well indeed 
might Zoroaster, in the enthusiasm of his heart, wor- 
ship the fires of Heaven as parts of that ineffable and 
never-dying spirit which animates and lives in all, 
through all eternity. 

In the dark ages of superstition and bigotry, was it 
strange that he should turn in disgust from the sacri- 
fices of blood, from horrid images the disgraceful pro- 
ductions of weak bewildered minds, to a fount of pure, 
unchanging, living light, to the brilliant fires above 
him, holding their unbroken paths through Heaven, 
pointing to God's throne, and whispering to the heart 
of something still more bright, more beautiful and 
holy? 



THE ORIGIN OF CHIVALRY. 247 



THE ORIGIN OF CHIVALRY. 

When society first began to form itself, rank and 
authority became necessary to subdue the wild and 
impetuous passions which raged unbridled in the 
savage bosom of man ; oppression and vassalage 
first appeared in the form of feudal government, each 
family looked up to its head, as each kingdom does 
now, to his sovereign, — his will was absolute, and 
his power unbounded in his castle and dominions. 

In this way the rights of man were partially se- 
cured, the vassal was bound to serve and succour his 
lord in the hour of danger, as it was that lord's auty 
to support and protect his serf; — but in those ruae 
and barbarous ages, where v(^as weak and helpless 
woman to find a shelter from the wild and lawless 
multitude? and what tribunal was there to which she 
could appeal if injured ? when man was contending 
with man for superiority, or right, where could she 
fly for redress ? could the feeble voice of woman be 
heard amid the uproar ? no ! — but it arose, though in 
murmurs, to the ear oi ner Maker, and that very evil 
which menaced her destruction, proved her blessing. 

In the dark ages of the world, woman held not 
that rank in society which a more enlightened age 
has allotted her ; she was deemed merelv the slave 
of man's tyrannical will, the tool of his pleasure — 
too weak to defend herself, and too insignificant to 
claim the protection of the lords of the creation. — 
As the sun of Religion arose upon the world, the dark 
clouds of contention arose with its light, — arms were 
the arguments which were unanimously chosen to 
decide every controversy ; the sword was the test of 



248 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

merit, — and the hand which wielded it with the great- 
est dexterity was chosen to direct the community. 

The youthful soldier, ardent and enthusiastic, was 
ever in search of some object on which to display 
his valour : the fair sex at length caught and fixed 
his attention, — tournaments and feats of arms were 
instituted to display his devotion to the cause of 
beauty and virtue in distress, and love and religion 
were blended — love became wildly romantic, religion 
was enthusiastically venerated — the name of woman 
was held as sacred as that of religion, and both, as 
dear to the heart of every knight-errant as that of 
the idol. Honour ! they were blended with each other 
— the passions held the reins, and rehgion, though 
contemplated with enthusiasm, was too often made 
to bow before the shrine of love and romance. 



THE END. 



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